


Human Recalibration

by Kryptaria



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF!Q, Dark Character, Light BDSM, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond never really left military service. After retiring from the Royal Navy, he went back to school for his old love, engineering, and settled happily into a life of quiet study and research at Baskerville. But when MI6 is attacked, James is called back into service to be the new head of Technical Services Section. He can't refuse - not when his country needs him - but now he has to uproot his life in Devon, rebuild an entire department, and remember how to operate in London's cutthroat political environment.</p><p>And that's before he actually meets the team of assassins that he has to equip and manage in the field.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rayvanfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/gifts).



> A birthday gift for the most wonderful fox in the world. Thanks to Jennybel75 and Stephrc79 for the quick read-through and last-minute emergency beta-ing! Special thanks for Kymethra for coming in with a Brit-pick and additional edit pass!
> 
> And Z exists, in no small part, thanks to Rayvanfox, who kept me on track, wrangled words, and made sure I got him (and Q!) right.
> 
> Special thanks to mrsteller00q for working with me on the Italian translation in chapter 7. She came up with the gorgeous dialog -- absolutely perfect!
> 
> This is a work in progress.

**Monday, 14 January 2013**

“Well, this is a bloody mess,” Gareth Mallory murmured as the office door closed behind the latest retiree. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Bill, but I have the sense that I’m surrounded by rats deserting a sinking ship.”

Bill Tanner grimaced. “To be fair, sir, Major Boothroyd should have retired years ago.”

“Technical Services Section was hit hard by the blast,” Gareth said diplomatically. ‘Utterly devastated’ would have been an accurate assessment.

Three months ago, a former MI6 agent had attacked headquarters not through conventional methods, with bombs or guns, but by turning their own internal computer systems against them. No need to sneak through checkpoints or storm security. TSS itself supplied the bombs in the form of chemicals, munitions, and explosives all stored onsite. And because of that, TSS had borne the brunt of the attack. Override a few gas safety systems, increase air flow in key ducts, and a single electrical surge to provide the spark, and most of TSS had been destroyed, along with half the executive branch and administration.

Honestly, Gareth couldn’t blame old Boothroyd for wanting to retire. The knowledge that all those chemicals and explosives were still there, now buried in the tunnels deep under London, made Gareth’s skin crawl.

“Sir,” Bill said tentatively.

Gareth was grateful for the interruption; gloomy thoughts would solve nothing. “You’ve had a brilliant idea?”

“Actually, I may be able to solve the TSS issue. I believe I know the perfect person to take Major Boothroyd’s place.”

“Someone from within MI6?” Normally, Gareth would have preferred to maintain the culture of the organisation, but he still wasn’t entirely convinced that MI6’s culture was healthy. They were too insular — too accustomed to doing things their own way, and to hell with regulations.

“In this case, I wouldn’t suggest it. We do have some excellent people in TSS, but none who understand the specific requirements of the executive team.” Bill shook his head. “He’s actually an engineer at Baskerville, former Royal Navy officer. Brilliant man. Expert with demolitions and weapons, but no slouch with computers.”

“Royal Navy, hmm?” Gareth leaned back in his chair, wishing he had the luxury of time for proper hiring. He could pull in technicians from GCHQ to secure MI6’s comms, but that didn’t handle the administrative side of things. And he didn’t have time for a civilian to acclimate to life at MI6.

“He’s very good, sir. I’ve known him for years.”

Gareth nodded. “All right. Bring him in. I’ll meet him.”

Bill nodded and rose. “I can probably get him to come in tomorrow or the day after.”

“As soon as possible. And forward me his security paperwork. If he works out, I’ll want him here right away, so if Baskerville will be a problem, be prepared to sort that out as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Bill?”

“Sir?” He paused at the door and looked back.

“What’s his name?”

“Commander Bond, sir. James Bond.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Wednesday, 16 January 2013**

Two days later, James Bond walked into Gareth’s office. Gareth wasn’t one to trust his gut over facts, but he immediately liked what he saw. The ex-Royal Navy officer was a bit under six feet tall, solidly built without having gone over to fat the way so many retirees did. Sharp blue eyes were shadowed by dark-framed glasses. Gareth was surprised to see he’d chosen to wear a dark blue cardigan and blue jeans rather than a proper suit.

Gareth rose and came out from behind his desk, rather than reaching across it to shake hands. Ten years in the Royal Navy, a military record that was classified even to Gareth’s eyes, and continuing service at Baskerville were more than enough to warrant Gareth’s respect. And somehow, the man had found time to fit in an engineering doctorate, when Gareth had struggled for years to finish his own schooling during his time in the SAS.

“Commander Bond? Or do you prefer ‘Doctor’?” Gareth asked.

“Call me James,” he invited with a charming grin, “or is this a formal interview? Bill told me you were a no-bullshit type.”

Suddenly hopeful that this would all work out, Gareth laughed. “In that case, call me Gareth.” He and James sat down, and Gareth got right to business. “I’m certain you’ve heard about the attack — more than what was on the news.”

“People talk,” James admitted.

Gareth smiled wryly. “That they do.”

After a few seconds of silence, James gave a slight nod. “I heard it was an inside job. A rogue agent.”

“A rogue former agent, yes.”

“Ah.”

“So you see why I need to be careful.”

“More than that,” James said, narrowing his eyes slightly as he studied Gareth’s face. “It’s obvious morale’s taken a hit.”

Gareth nodded, deciding for once to tell the unvarnished truth. He suspected honesty would get him farther than politics, at least with this man. “Our casualty list is far worse than the public suspects. Technical Services Section is all but empty.”

“That’s Geoff Boothroyd’s department, isn’t it?”

“You know him?”

James smiled wryly. “He came to Baskerville a few times, though we never worked together.”

“He just announced his retirement. I believe the attack was the last straw. He did a few field missions when he was younger, but he’s over eighty now.”

“Eighty... He’s more than earned a rest.” James met Gareth’s eyes steadily. “You need someone to take over, but it’s more than that.”

Gareth hid a grimace. “I need outside eyes to find the vulnerabilities that our existing security protocols missed. We have _some_ good people left, but they’ve all either been here too long or have been trained to complacency by outdated regs.”

“You make it sound like you need a hitman more than a manager.”

“We’ve got an entire bloody division of _those_ ,” Gareth  admitted, painfully aware of the security breach behind those words. But at this point, he was certain that James was the right man for the job, even if it was nothing more than gut instinct. “But I don’t expect you to handle them — just to give them the tools they need and point them in the proper direction.”

“That’s a comfort, at least. Other than a bit of target shooting, I haven’t picked up a firearm in years.”

“Mmm. So your reputation as a sharpshooter — and the warning not to bet against you, with anything from handguns to sniper rifles...”

James laughed, glancing away. “Thorough background check, was it?”

“Actually, you fleeced Bill’s nephew for a hundred quid this past Christmas. Or so the rumour goes.”

“Fleeced,” James scoffed, his grin bringing a wicked light to his blue eyes. “I _won_ that through sheer talent.”

“So, are you willing to try that talent in Technical Service Section?”

“As long as you don’t need me to shoot any of them, I’m in.” He gestured back towards the door to the office where Eve Moneypenny sat, part-secretary, part-watchdog. “Can you get someone to find me a place to live for now? I can go back this weekend and arrange a moving company, find an estate agent, all that.”

Gareth nodded, relieved that James wasn’t bogging down on the details of compensation and job duties. James was needed; that was enough for him. “Eve can get you sorted out,” Gareth said as they both rose and shook hands again. “Ask her to take you down to TSS, find someone to show you around.”

James arched a brow and flicked at the visitor’s badge hanging from his cardigan. “Do I risk getting arrested for violating internal security protocols without my credentials at hand?”

“Eve’s got top clearance. She was a field agent.” Gareth caught the interest in James’ eyes, the subtle shift in his smile, and warned, “She’s an excellent shot as well, James. Be careful around her.”

To Gareth’s surprise, James’ smile faded a touch, and his shoulders subtly tensed, as though Gareth had somehow offended him. Before Gareth could apologise, James said, “No need to worry. I’m not interested.”

Immediately, Gareth’s gaze dropped to James’ left hand. No wedding ring, but a lot of men didn’t bother wearing one. “Are you —”

“Not interested,” James interrupted coolly. “Was there anything else?”

Flustered, Gareth shook his head. Maybe he’d been married and divorced or widowed. “No. You’ve already passed your security checks. Eve will take care of the rest.”

James nodded, and the cold edge was gone from his voice when he said, “Thank you, sir,” before he let himself back out.

 

~~~

 

“So. Royal Navy,” Eve Moneypenny said, giving James a sly look that was uncomfortably familiar. “Mallory pulled your file, of course, but I didn’t get a chance to see it.  Did I miss anything interesting?”

James smiled back at her. “Sorry. That’s classified.”

She hummed thoughtfully and kept eyeing him. Thankfully, the lift arrived, saving him from having to inform her that her security clearance wasn’t nearly sufficient for him to discuss his career. He wasn’t about to make an enemy of his new boss’ bodyguard-turned-secretary, especially when she seemed to like him well enough, though for all the wrong reasons.

When they got into the lift, she tapped her security access card against a reader — James made a mental note to suggest switching to biometrics — before she pressed a button that read SB6. “Sub-basement?” he asked to distract her.

“TSS is down in the tunnels. We all were, for a while, but when we came back aboveground, they stayed. Supposedly it’s safer.” She shot James another sly smile and asked, “You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

“Not at all,” he assured her, masking his concern with ease. In his experience, the only people who willingly worked in tunnels — other than miners or physicists — were those who feared discovery. What secrets were hiding down in his new domain?

 _You came back to this willingly_ , a little voice in the back of his head reminded him unnecessarily. Today was Wednesday. He’d spent yesterday putting his work on hold before driving to London in the dark. Seven hours of restless sleep at the hotel, and now this.

He resisted the urge to rub at the bridge of his nose, where his glasses pinched. Eve Moneypenny was a trained agent, which meant she’d be watching him, intentionally or not, searching for weaknesses or vulnerabilities. It was like being back in the bloody SBS, only here he had no one he’d trust to watch his back.

It seemed to take forever for the lift to finally stop at sub-basement six. Reminding himself that he could walk away at any time — that Baskerville wanted him back, and there were civilian companies and research institutes that would offer him virtually anything he wanted — he followed Eve into a concrete and brick tunnel. Bare fluorescent bulbs flickered overhead, making him wonder if there was a separate clean power source for the servers and sensitive equipment. And what about backup generators? Clean air exchange and ventilation ducts?

“I’ll take you to see your two seconds-in-command,” she said as they reached the end of the tunnel. A staircase led down into an old Underground station, complete with a pit where trains could run. Group workstations were set up between the tiled support pillars, each with three or four techs at computers, either working in silence or speaking in hushed tones.

The techs were busy, but there was a desolate, almost deserted air hanging over TSS like a fog. He noted the lack of personal effects — photographs and coffee mugs and plants — and added that to the growing list of problems he’d need to address.

First things first. He’d need to find a good source of information. There was always one person who knew where all the bodies were buried. Find that person; gain that person’s trust. Simple — anywhere but an organisation that existed on secrets, one that had been stung by the wrong person who’d known too many of those secrets.

Wishing he were back in Devon, arguing over budget cuts and resource allocation, he did his best to project a calm, composed demeanour as he and Eve stopped at a corner workstation. This one was two desks butted together in an L-shape, with rolling whiteboards zip-tied to the legs, creating a semi-private cubicle. The engraved plastic nameplate taped to the back of one whiteboard read only ‘Z’.

Interesting. He’d heard rumours, whispers of Special Forces soldiers who’d been recruited into other government work and never seen again. A recruiter had come to interview him, in fact, when he’d been planning his military retirement, but he’d made it clear that he was done with killing. A man could only live with so much blood on his hands before it changed him, and even if he’d been willing to continue killing, he’d had no interest in staying in the military.

The details of the Alpha Programme were far outside even James’ security clearance — or had been, at any rate. Known for their single letter codenames, the Alphas were field operatives charged with protecting the Crown’s interests at any cost. They were authorised to do as they saw fit in the field, without supervision or recourse, including operating on allied soil and assassination. But what was one of them doing lurking down here?

“Well, it’s my lucky day. Two for the price of one,” Eve said, draping herself over the edge of one of the whiteboards.

A man rose into sight just enough for James to catch a glimpse of soft, dark hair and hazel eyes, thin black glasses, the hint of high cheekbones beneath pale skin. “Hello, Eve. That never gets old,” the man said in a bland voice that covered razor-edged steel.

Ice crept up James’ spine, and because old habits died hard, he found himself again mentally assessing his surroundings, this time noting weapons, sight-lines, and exits. He looked calmly into the killer’s eyes, remembering the feel of blood rushing under his hands, and he watched hazel eyes widen just slightly when James didn’t back down.

But James had no need to prove himself. He looked away first, understanding that this other killer was still trapped in that fire — still addicted to racing down the wire between life and death. Once, James would’ve snapped and snarled at the challenge, but he’d changed. He’d found a new way to live.

So many of the Crown’s killers burned out before they’d ever had a chance to live. Would this one, too?

“I missed you, too,” Eve teased, an intimate familiarity creeping into her voice.

“Does Mallory want me?” the killer asked flatly, as if utterly uninterested in what Eve was offering. When James turned back, he saw those hazel eyes were now fixed on her — not on her curves or charming smile, but on her eyes. Reading her.

Unable to meet those eyes for more than a couple of seconds, Eve glanced past the killer and said, “Actually, we’re here for Z.”

 _‘Two for the price of one,’_ Eve had said. James wanted to move closer so he could peer over the high whiteboard to see the other killer. But any movement would draw attention, and the standing one was already on edge. Fresh in from a mission, James suspected. Didn’t MI6 have counsellors to talk its Alphas down?

All of James’ instincts urged him to go after the unknown killer, but he held back. Now wasn’t the time. Blundering in now would be tantamount to an attack. A challenge.

Instead, he surreptitiously watched as the killer walked into view. Barely an inch shorter than James, deceptively slender, absolutely bloody _gorgeous_ in a way that turned James’ blood to inappropriate, dangerous fire. God, that was the _last_ thing he needed — to get involved with a half-wild predator like this one. And he looked so deceptively young, so falsely innocent, except for those too-knowing eyes.

Staring at him would be a challenge; ignoring him would be a snub. With a falsely casual air, James allowed his gaze naturally to shift from the beautiful, deadly young man to Eve, who beckoned him around the whiteboards. Taking the excuse to escape, James circled the desk —

And stopped, confronted with the killer’s twin. Only where the killer was cloaked in a falsely innocent demeanour, this twin wielded his personality like a weapon. James counted a half-dozen piercings — ears, eyebrow, nose, and lips — with more surely hidden under long hair that was spiked and gelled and dyed within an inch of its life, not soft like the other’s had been.

“Commander James Bond, meet Z,” Eve said, gesturing elegantly towards the young man. “Z, this —”

“The Major’s replacement,” Z interrupted. His voice was sharp, full of aggression; this one was a rocket launcher compared to the hidden knife that was his twin. But James felt no particular challenge from Z. No _welcome_ , but no challenge.

Eve turned back to James with an indulgent smile. “Z’s in charge of network security.”

“Post-fucking-Silva network security,” Z cut in sharply. “Don’t blame that shit you had before on me.”

“And he’s _very_ charming,” Eve said, unruffled.

Aggressive, but not in a personal way. James got the impression that Z was abrupt with everyone, possibly including his twin. “And before that?” James asked neutrally, approaching the subject of Z’s training and qualifications obliquely.

Z let out an undignified snort. “Getting rich. Your fucking pay here is shit.”

The officer in James wanted to throw the arrogant bastard out on his ear, but the officer’s voice was barely a whisper, long since buried. Instead, James grinned and said, “If it keeps your brother safe, you’d do it for free.”

Z’s eyes were also hazel, but not hidden away behind glasses. Now, they widened just slightly before a sly smile tugged at his dark lips. “Tell anyone and Q will shank you for me.”

“We don’t ‘shank’ people here, Z,” Eve corrected.

“Yeah, what-the-fuck-ever. No such thing as ghosts, aliens, or assassins, either.” Z rolled his eyes.

James laughed. “One out of three isn’t bad,” he teased, and Z blinked in surprise. It felt like a win, so James turned back to Eve, wanting to leave Z with a good impression. “I believe you had _two_ people you wanted me to meet?”

Eve took a beat to recover. “Danielle Marsh, Assistant Director. She’s this way.”

James gave Z a brief nod and followed Eve up a flight of tiled stairs to a balcony that overlooked the work centre. They passed an open doorway that led to a deserted break room that smelled of stale coffee and burnt microwave popcorn. The next door was lightly smoked glass; inside, James could make out a deep, narrow office with a workbench to one side and a desk near the back.

At Eve’s soft knock, a figure rose from behind the desk and gestured. Eve pushed open the door and asked, “Are you busy, Danielle?”

“Not at all, dear. Come in.”

“Only for a moment. Danielle Marsh, this is Commander James Bond, Major Boothroyd’s replacement.”

Danielle was James’ height in her heels, conservative as Z had been provocative, curvy as the twins had been slender. She gave James a quick once-over, smiled, and offered her hand. “Please, call me Danielle.”

“Call me James,” he invited. He’d stand on formality with his department, but not with this woman he hoped to make his ally.

 

~~~

 

Danielle Marsh had to be near retirement age, making James wonder why she’d stayed — not that he was arguing. She was everything he’d hoped she would be, and she seemed cautiously supportive of his taking over TSS. After introducing them, Eve handed James over to Danielle and went back upstairs, with a promise to have his security access card available by lunch.

He gave Eve an extra hour by taking Danielle to the canteen on the seventh floor, above ground. The food was decent enough, and while the posters on the walls reminded everyone to be conscious of security levels, it wasn’t nearly as exposed as any of the restaurants nearby. From now on, he’d have to worry about that, he realised with an inward sigh. Once, he’d been an expert at personal security, though he’d slacked off since moving to Baskerville. Living in a secure cottage near the facility had made him lazy.

“I trust you’ll let me know if I’m overstepping,” James said, nodding to the nearby poster as he and Danielle took their trays to a corner table.

Danielle seemed pleased that he’d asked. “Of course. We’ve had issues with that in the past. Major Boothroyd was... forgetful.”

James nodded, understanding. She’d probably been loyal to Boothroyd, perhaps even after she should have reported any memory lapses that could affect security. Did she blame herself for the attack? He’d need to find out the details, but later. He had to tend to the present and future before he could dig into the past.

Start with the present, then. “So, why do you have an Alpha working network security?”

After a single confused blink, Danielle asked, “You mean Z?” She laughed and shook her head, and her smile stripped ten years off her age. “He’s not an Alpha. He goes by ‘Z’ — Well, there are reasons. Though he _does_ go out in the field with his brother, Q. _He’s_ an Alpha. Our youngest since the Second World War, in fact.”

 _Q_ , James thought, remembering cold hazel eyes. “How young?”

“Twenty-eight when he joined the Alpha Programme. He was in Section Twenty before, though, after he finished his time in the Royal Army. He’s thirty-two now? Thirty-three?”

Not so young after all. For one moment, he was relieved that he was only a handful of years older than Q. Then he caught himself and angrily pushed the thought aside. He wasn’t about to get involved with _anyone_ in London, and certainly not a colleague. It was one thing to know intellectually that the military and government didn’t care who he took to his bed, as long as his partners were old enough to give consent and not foreign agents, but he’d spent too long looking over his shoulder. Old scars ran deep, and not all of his had come from enemy soldiers.

“And ‘Z’?”

“As soon as we identified our building’s environmental systems network as the point of attack, Q brought in Z. Special authorisation to have him find and close all the security holes in our network.”

 _Unplug the bloody thing_ , James thought, though he didn’t say it. There was no damned need for a secure building’s air conditioning and heating, plumbing, and electric to be monitored anywhere but internally.

“I take it he’ll be staying?” James asked.

Danielle pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Don’t let his attitude put you off. He’s absolutely brilliant and dedicated. He practically lives at his desk unless I send him home to sleep.” She smiled encouragingly and added, “Major Boothroyd had no idea what to do with him. I ended up taking Z’s reports myself. I’m happy to continue doing that.”

James shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I —”

“Prefer to get your information first-hand?” she interrupted wryly.

He laughed. “Only when necessary. I’m fully aware that I’ll hardly have time to breathe, once I have my security credentials. I would just rather have one irreverent genius who’s never seen the dress code than ten rulebook-quoting bureaucrats.”

Danielle’s smile was bright and relieved. She leaned over and patted his hand. “You’ll do just fine, then. Now eat your lunch. We’ll head back downstairs, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team. Or what’s left of it, at any rate.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Wednesday, 16 January 2013**

The house looked small, at least above ground. Two modest storeys, with only a garage and a few windows facing the street. A single tree grew from a tiny mulched garden surrounded by a neatly trimmed hedge. Nearly identical houses crowded close on either side, with only narrow walkways leading to equally small back gardens. The car that pulled into the garage at this particular house was equally unremarkable, a grey Vauxhall Corsa that would pass almost invisibly in a city full of other grey Vauxhall Corsas.

Security through obscurity.

“I hate this fucking job.” As soon as the garage door was down and the security light blinked a green all-clear, Z pushed open the passenger door. “I hate this fucking car, too,” he added over his shoulder before he slid out, laptop bag in hand.

Q laughed, shedding the tension of work like a second skin. No house was an impenetrable bunker, but the one he shared with his brother was as close as it could get. “You like working with me, though.” He set the brake, turned off the engine, and got out. After he closed the door, he rested an arm on the car’s roof, watching as Z ran a hand over one of the two motorcycles crammed into one corner of the garage.

“We’re going out this weekend,” Z announced, finally turning back to face his brother. “I didn’t sign up for a boring life while you fuck your way around the world.”

“You had your ten years. It’s my turn,” Q said, hiding his grin behind a bland tone of voice.

Z flipped two fingers at him and went for the door. Multilayer security required a handprint, voice analysis, and complex password entry. The system was their own design, one they hadn’t yet sold to the government — not until they figured out how to break it first.

They were attacked as soon as the door solenoids disengaged. Even braced for it, Z still stumbled back into Q, and they both nearly went down under almost twenty kilos of gangly, silk-haired saluki.

Q rescued Z’s laptop bag while Z kept the puppy, River, from crashing. “Hi, baby. You poor thing, all alone,” Z cooed, easing River into a controlled fall as she tried to roll onto her back before she was anywhere near the floor. As soon as his scratching hand found her belly, her legs started convulsing in canine ecstasy, and she crooned out a warbling howl.

“We should take her to the park,” Q suggested. He could use a good run outdoors, away from the secure indoor gym at MI6. “Did you remember my holster?”

“Fucking spy,” Z accused, still petting the puppy. “Of course I remembered your fucking holster. Front pocket.”

Q turned the laptop bag around and dug through the compartments until he found a long strip of elastic, like an oversized support bandage. “Is this the right —”

“If you ask if it’s the right fucking size, I will deck you,” Z threatened, tipping his head back to look at Q upside-down. “I joined MI-fucking-6 to take care of you.”

Q held up a hand in surrender, and another piece of post-mission tension cracked away. He’d been back in London for just thirty hours. “I know. I’m sorry,” he said softly, crouching down. As soon as he was in reach, River twisted, lashing out with her long tongue to paint a wet stripe across his hand. He grinned and tapped her nose, earning another affectionate lick.

Z said nothing, but the nudge against one shoulder told Q he’d been forgiven. “Come on,” Z said, giving River’s fur one last ruffle. “Who wants to go to the park?” he sang at her. “Want to go to the park, baby?”

This time, her excited flailing managed to take them both down.

 

~~~

 

Two hours later, Q flopped himself down on one end of the couch and picked up a slice of plain cheese pizza dusted liberally with crushed red peppers. Z’s slice of pepperoni had River’s interest, which meant her head was in Z’s lap, leaving Q to contend with her tail.

Only when they were halfway through their pizzas did Z break their comfortable silence. “That bloke today. He’s Boothroyd’s replacement.”

Q glanced over at Z. “The one who looked like a professor?”

Z snorted and plucked off a pepperoni to offer to River. “Yeah, right,” he said, shooting Q a sceptical look.

So Z had also seen the killer in the man’s eyes. Q felt a twinge of regret. When he’d gone into the military, he’d sworn to keep his brother safe and free of the violence and politics that came with government service. But after a few missions had gone disastrously wrong, Z had insisted on coming to MI6, shattering his innocence.

Well, not ‘innocence’ exactly. Z had never been innocent. Perhaps, Q thought regretfully, ‘freedom from darkness’ was a better way to put it.

“Oi. You with me?” Z asked with a sharp click of his fingers that had River thinking she was getting another treat.

Q met Z’s eyes and smiled. “Sorry. Boothroyd’s replacement?”

Worry flickered in familiar hazel depths, though Z didn’t speak his thoughts; there was no need. Instead, he shrugged and continued, “We barely talked. He spent all day with Danielle.”

Other than Z, Danielle was the only person in all of TSS who had earned Q’s trust. Unfortunately, she rarely ran missions herself these days. “Did you hear anything?”

“She likes him.”

“How can you tell?”

“Called him ‘dear’.”

Q leaned back, idly watching as Z alternated between eating and feeding River long bits of cheese. “Boothroyd bypassed normal regs to hire you. Do you expect that to be a problem?”

Z shook his head, grin flashing to life. “Danielle adores us.”

“True.” Q finished off the pizza, leaving only sauce, cheese bits, and pepper flakes scattered at the bottom of the box. When he shifted River’s back end so he could stand, River shot him a hopeful look. “You don’t want it. Too spicy.”

One of the first words she’d learned was ‘spicy’. She turned away, staring mournfully at Z, who gave over the last pepperoni. “What’d you think of him?”

“He’s killed before,” Q answered at once. He and Z had no secrets between them, and to hell with security clearance. As he took the rubbish to the kitchen bin, he asked, “Do you have a name? We should do a background check.”

Z let out a dramatic sigh. “Like I didn’t already fucking do one?”

The only warning Q had was a rustle of fabric and the rattle of River’s tags against her spiked collar, but he still twisted in time to catch the memory stick Z threw at him. He couldn’t afford to have reflexes that were anything less than perfect.

Z grinned. “Nice catch.”

Q grinned back and went to find his laptop.

 

~~~

 

It was nearly nine when Q walked into Z’s room without knocking. Z was at his computer, chair tipped as far back as the hydraulics would allow, attention fixed on his monitor. Q recognised the hacking program that was running.

Q sat on the edge of the bed, beside one of the black iron posts. River woke up with a startled huff and belly-crawled to him, demanding that he scratch her ears; Q obliged.

“It’s a trap,” he said when Z finally tore his attention away from the computer and looked back at him.

“It’s always a fucking trap,” Z said agreeably. “What this time?”

“Bond.” Q rested a hand on River’s head to keep her still and leaned over to offer Z the memory stick. “You didn’t read the file?”

“Who has fucking time?” Z scoffed.

Q would have been irritated, but he knew Z was right. Work at MI6 could’ve kept Z busy around the clock, especially given Z’s perfectionist nature. “Yes, Bond has an engineering doctorate. He’s supposedly been working at the Baskerville labs for the last few years.”

Z arched his pierced brow. “But.”

“But,” Q said, nodding, “before that, he was SBS.” That had given Q a moment’s pause. Special Boat Services was the Royal Navy equivalent of Q’s own Special Air Services — which explained the deadly edge Q had sensed buried under the soft cardigan and faded blue jeans that Bond wore like camouflage.

“Shit.” Z sat forward and swivelled his chair around to face Q. River’s tail thumped on the bed, and she let her head loll off Q’s knee, tongue hanging out.

“Four months ago, Mallory saw no point in the Alpha Programme. He may know better than to fire us now, after _we_ were the ones to stop Silva —”

Z snorted. “You, you mean.”

Q nodded but modestly continued, “He may have brought Bond in to find a way to control us.”

That made Z laugh. “Yeah, let me know how _that_ fucking works out.” He rolled the chair a few inches closer to the bed so he could put a foot up against the post. “Eve’s still after you.”

“Don’t you start.”

Z shrugged. “And don’t you give me that fucking ‘no second times’ bullshit. Other than Eve, when’s the last time you fucked someone who wasn’t part of a mission?”

“Eve _was_ part of a mission.”

Z kicked him in the shin. Hard.

Q held up the hand that wasn’t occupied with petting River. “I know.”

“It’s not —”

“Healthy. _I know_.” Q sighed and leaned against the bedpost, looking down at the drowsy puppy. She was fighting to keep her eyes open, but the fast run in the park had tired her out. Q and Z could’ve kept going, but they were very conscious of the impact of too much exercise on young, growing bones. “You’ve heard all the reasons.”

“Excuses.”

“Reasons,” Q insisted. “I spend enough time worrying that someone will come after you or River to get to me.”

“And we trust your ass to not let that happen — or to raise fucking hell to come rescue us.”

Q smiled, lifting his head to meet his brother’s eyes. “I’d burn the whole country to ash.”

“I’d say that sort of fucking sociopathic shit worries me, but I’d do the same, so fuck it.” Z grinned. “Are we out of ice cream?”

Well accustomed to Z’s non sequiturs, Q just nodded. “We finished it last movie night.”

“Go get some. There’s still leftover pie from Danielle.”

Q extracted himself out from under the dog, who drooped over the end of the bed before sliding off like a furry avalanche. As she scrambled back to her feet, Q tugged his shirt back down over the belly holster he still wore. The compact Walther PPK-S was body warm, so much a part of him that he didn’t even feel it anymore. “Chocolate syrup?”

Z flashed his grin before he turned back to the computer. “Only if that ginger’s working checkout, and you bring her, too.”

“Pull your own bloody one-night stands.” Q whistled for River who rushed after him, eager to go for another walk despite her sleepiness.

 

~~~

 

It was almost ten before James finally let himself into his hotel room, carrying a takeaway bag and a secure laptop in a padded rucksack. The sheer scope of the work ahead of him was overwhelming, but he knew he had to try. MI6 was a bloody mess, and the world was more unstable than most people guessed.

He locked the door and did a quick search of his room before he sat down at the desk to eat. Already, old habits were returning. He wouldn’t actually use the laptop tonight, and he’d move to a different hotel tomorrow — or to his temporary housing, if Gareth’s people could come through that quickly. For now, he’d memorised everything he needed to know.

He finished every last bite of fish and chips from the hole-in-the-wall he’d been delighted to find hadn’t gone out of business; the meal was every bit as good as he remembered from years before. It would’ve gone down better with a beer, but James didn’t drink. Not anymore. Coffee in the morning and bottled water the rest of the day was good enough.

After clearing the desk, he took off his cardigan and shrugged out of the holster that felt unfamiliar and binding. The weapon was a sleek, compact Walther PPK-S, unfamiliar and distressingly small. He dropped the magazine, ejected the cartridge, and fitted the grip to his palm. With his first finger on the trigger, he could barely get two fingers around the grip.

He hated it.

But he wasn’t going into combat. The likelihood of him having to draw it was incredibly low, despite the hazard of his new position. And it was admittedly easier to conceal than a larger, heavier weapon. He’d have to spend hours on the firing range to familiarise himself with it, to make the weapon a part of himself, but it wasn’t as if he had anything else to do in his spare time.

Dangerous thought, that. As he started breaking down the unfamiliar weapon, trying to learn the nuances of its mechanisms, he tried to think of a safe social outlet outside work. At Baskerville, he’d enjoyed everything from pub nights to marksmanship challenges with the soldiers. He’d gone to professional conferences and family barbecues with the other scientists, though they usually were thinly masked excuses to set James up with blind dates that never worked out.

What did he have here? There were professional organisations he couldn’t join, academic colleagues he couldn’t use as sounding-boards for his work-related ideas. Maybe he could join a bloody book club. The thought drew a soft, bitter laugh.

He disassembled and reassembled the weapon twice, without any proficiency. That would come, in time. For now, he reloaded the weapon and brought it with him to the bathroom, where he took a hot bath, eyes closed, and concentrated on clearing his mind so he could sleep.

But as he lay in bed, one hand resting on the gun under his pillow, he thought about a killer with a youthful face and cold hazel eyes, and he wondered how he’d ever get through to one of them, much less a whole group of them.

Though their official leader was Gareth Mallory himself, he oversaw all of MI6. He couldn’t give them any sort of personal attention, which was where the head of Technical Services Section had always stepped in, unofficially acting as the Alphas’ guardian. But Boothroyd should have retired twenty years ago, and now James would have to make up for any mistakes brought on by Boothroyd’s age gap or failing memory.

 _One step at a time,_ he told himself. He was certain that the Alpha agents had their own hierarchy, one to which the executive branch was blind. James had to identify that leader and win his or her respect. Hopefully, the others would then fall in line without too much of a struggle.

But how could he identify the leader in a group of remote, isolated killers who bared their throats to no one? They spent most of their time in the field — far too much time, as far as James was concerned. He’d never get a chance to observe them all interacting with one another.

He’d need to find another way in. Not Danielle. She regarded them all as exasperating, unruly children, and James guessed they looked at her as a mother figure. She was outside their hierarchy.

 _Z_ , he thought, opening his eyes to look at the city lights that turned the snow to a white haze outside the window. The killer’s brother, who now worked for James. Z might well be the key James needed to unlock the Alpha Programme.

Now he just had to figure out how to win a rebellious computer programmer to his side.


	4. Chapter 4

**Monday, 21 January 2013**

Monday morning found James Bond, new resident of Balham, sitting at the head of a conference table with Danielle Marsh and his eleven technical team leads. _Lucky thirteen_ , he thought grimly, though he didn’t go near the black humour as an icebreaker. One of his people was in a wheelchair from Silva’s attack months ago, and two more still wore casts.

They introduced themselves in turn, from TJ, who ran communications and security, to Belinda, in charge of the armoury. When it was Z’s turn, he remained slouched in his seat and bluntly said, “I keep your fucking network safe. I can do it for the rest of the fucking building, too, if you send someone to shoot that fucking arsehole IT manager, Fredrickson. I hear we have people who do that sort of shit.”

James itched to cut Z down for the inappropriate behaviour, but he was using Danielle for his barometer of the room’s mood, and all she did was sigh and ask the next person to introduce herself. Right now, Z’s indifference to protocol was the least of James’ worries.

After introductions, Danielle looked to James, who’d spent the weekend studying Boothroyd’s notes, including his boilerplate meeting agenda. There were changes James wanted to make, but he’d introduce them slowly.

“Active mission reports?” he asked, wondering why they had no one from the Alpha Programme or field offices present. Did no one at MI6 believe in cross-department representation at meetings?

A prickle of unease went through him at the thought. If interdepartmental politics at MI6 were that bad, James might just authorize Z’s shooter after all.

“Q got the green light for Marrakech Saturday morning,” Z announced.

“Why wasn’t I notified?”

Z’s frown made his eyebrow ring catch the light. “Did you want to be?”

Holding back a surge of irritation, James nodded, looking around the table. “Any time an Alpha’s mission is go, I want to know about it. If it’s after hours, notify me by text or phone call, not by forwarding me an email.” After almost everyone nodded — Z just stared at him — James turned back to Z. “Come to my office after the meeting. Bring whatever you need to fill me in on the details of the mission.”

Significantly, Z spun his tablet around before he nodded. It wasn’t the verbal confirmation James wanted, but it would have to do for now. James couldn’t risk alienating him.

All the other reports had to do with regular field agents. While their missions were dangerous or complex, most field agents who were abroad went so under the protective cover of embassy personnel. They’d be used to liase with the locals or military contractors who performed the actual field work.

As Danielle was about to dismiss the meeting, James interrupted, holding up a hand. “How many of you are running active Alphas at the moment?”

Of the twelve others arranged around the conference table, only Z raised his hand with any certainty. TJ lifted one hand from the table, wavering before he hesitantly raised it to shoulder-height. Lauren lifted her pen, biting her lip as if to hold back a question, and Matt gave an uncertain shrug.

“Are you all saying you _don’t know_?” James asked incredulously.

Lauren spoke up. “They don’t exactly check in, sir. Not unless there’s something they need.”

 _Wonderful_ , James thought as he closed the meeting. An entire division of assassins just running about, doing whatever they damned well pleased.

Tempted as he was to go straight to Gareth, he had another important meeting. Instead, he remained calm and went to the break room beside Danielle’s office. A few of the techs appeared in the doorway before rethinking their desire for tea. Only Danielle actually had the courage to enter, and they stood quietly side-by-side as she fixed a cup of tea and he set up a fresh pot of coffee.

After one last glance at the empty doorway, James quietly asked, “Is that typical? The Alpha missions?”

Danielle’s shoulders slumped. “It wasn’t always,” she admitted. “We’ve unfortunately become a bit less... disciplined in the past few years.”

“The past few _years_?” he asked incredulously.

Wincing, she nodded. “The past ten or fifteen, actually. Since Iraq, we’ve been caught up in politics. Our governing regulations could fill an encyclopaedia. There comes a point when you have so many rules —”

James finished, “— that you start ignoring them all, just to get anything done.” He sighed and took a sip of bland office coffee, wishing, not for the first time, for a shot of whiskey to help him cope.

“I’m afraid so,” she said sympathetically. “Fortunately, we have good people who are willing to do whatever it takes to support our field missions. We’re just...”

“Disorganised?”

Danielle pressed her lips together and stirred another spoonful of sugar into her tea before saying, “You’re very forthright.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that this was a bloody mess — that _lives_ were at stake. _Small steps,_ he reminded himself, not for the last time that morning.

 

~~~

 

He repeated those words to himself not an hour later as he looked across his desk at Z. The hacker — because James was under no illusion that Z’s programming was strictly above-board — sprawled in the guest chair like a young king on his throne, utterly confident and composed. James couldn’t remember the last time any of his subordinates had tried that sort of nonsense with him.

Instead of a reprimand, he calmly said, “Tell me about the mission.”

“Nothing to tell,” Z said with a shrug that put James’ teeth on edge. “It’s a hit. He goes out, kills his target, comes back.”

James cringed inwardly at the thought of what Q’s after action reports had to look like. “Perhaps a few more details are in order. _Who_ is his target?”

“Fuck if I know. Some bird in Marrakech. She has a yacht, likes the nightclubs there.”

He barely stopped himself from asking if this was an _authorised_ hit or some act of personal vengeance. Instead, he smiled, saying, “Should be easy enough, if she has a known pattern of movements. I assume he’s going to make it seem like natural causes?”

Z huffed and flicked his tongue out, spinning the ring in his lower lip. “Until someone cuts her corpse open, yeah — if they even bother. He’s got a poison needle.”

“How does he plan on getting close to her?”

Another shrug. “Fuck her, probably. It’s what he usually does.”

Comforting. And it was clear that discussing the mission wasn’t going to get him anywhere. So he resorted to Plan B and nodded, saying, “Good enough. Let’s discuss the state of the network.”

A hint of interest came into Z’s eyes at that. “What about it?”

Pointedly, James looked past Z to the closed office door, reminding Z that their discussion was private. He leaned forward, lowering his voice just a touch to keep Z focused, and said, “My appointment as department head was rushed. I’m at an interim period of paperwork — no approved budget. Because of that, I can push purchase orders through unconventional channels. And Danielle tells me you have ideas for improving network security.”

Slowly, Z’s lips curved up in a feral grin very much like his brother’s, though without the predatory, deadly edge.

James matched Z’s smile. “Do you have time to discuss what you need?”

“Fuck, yes,” Z said at once. “To get rid of some of the shit that’s bogging down our network, I’ll fucking _make_ time”

 

~~~

 

**Thursday, 24 January 2013**

_Contact._

Q glanced shyly through his straight light brown fringe at his target. His body language was the final touch needed to take fifteen years off his age; the rest was accomplished with a fishnet shirt, skin-tight PVC trousers, and over-dramatic cosmetics. He looked like a desperate, underfed teenager trying too hard to pass as an adult. There was no possible way he could present a danger; he certainly couldn’t be hiding a weapon anywhere under his clothes.

“You’re a mousy little thing, aren’t you?” his target purred, pleased with what she saw. She was on the far side of forty, though cosmetic surgery had altered her appearance, making her look both younger and less like the assassin on INTERPOL’s wanted list.

Q flinched under her regard, hunching in on himself, and shrugged with one shoulder. They were close to the bar, which would offer some level of concealment as long as he kept his hands low. The dance floor was both an advantage and a potential problem with its ever-shifting crowd. There was no way he could keep track of everyone. She had to have bodyguards watching her. He just had to make certain they dismissed him as harmless.

He muttered an answer calculated to be too soft for her to hear. Obligingly, she took a step closer. His eyes, downcast, tracked the movement of her hips, but not for the obvious reasons: It would break character for him to look up into her eyes, so her hips were her next best tell, the next best way to predict how she might move.

“What was that?” Her voice was arrogant, demanding.

He repeated his words, darting another enticing look at her. The deep brown contacts were stinging his eyes, but she’d mistake the redness for drugs, helped by the drops he’d used to enlarge his pupils. Once he was done with this mission, he silently promised himself that he’d spend twenty-four hours with his head buried under a bloody pillow until the headache went away.

Scarlet painted nails clasped his jaw, digging in as she pulled his head up. He swayed as though off-balance and staggered closer, senses lighting up. Time seemed to stretch and bend to his will as his heart leaped.

The needle was in his fingers. He looked down again and bit his lip to draw her gaze. He knew her preferences well.

She never saw the glint of the needle as he reached for her free hand. Even the needle’s prick was disregarded as nothing more than an odd twinge of nerves.

Q began a silent mental countdown. He rubbed his hand over his thigh and carefully — so very carefully — slipped the needle into the seam of his trousers. If it pierced the PVC and entered his flesh, he would be as dead as his target.

Her nails pinched at his skin as she jerked his head up and ran a thumb over his lower lip. “You’ll do,” she told him, her smile hungry. She released him with a little push that made him stumble again. Then she turned away, beckoning for him to follow.

He trembled visibly and hung back. He looked after her, wavering, before he hunched over again and slunk away as if too frightened, despite the lure of whatever she offered. He didn’t hear any laughter, but he knew someone was watching, full of amusement for the rent boy who didn’t have the courage to face the exotic, demanding foreigner. There was still a chance that they’d come after him, not because of the poison slithering through her veins but because of her bruised ego.

As soon as he was outside, he let the flow of pedestrian traffic pull him along, though he was still too noticeable. The cosmetics and revealing clothes were camouflage only inside the club; now, he needed to disappear into the populace. But he’d already thought of that.

He had three separate stashes of local clothing. The first had people nearby, but the second was deserted. By now, his countdown had reached zero; his target was going into respiratory arrest. The local hospital was too far away for her to reach emergency services on time. An alert paramedic might keep her ‘alive’ through CPR, but that was a temporary measure at best.

He pulled on a bulky sweatshirt and heavy cotton trousers, adding fifteen kilos to his apparent weight. The oversized djellaba helped the illusion. Plastic-wrapped baby wipes in the pocket let him remove the worst of his eyeliner and face powder. The rest, he hid under the shadow of the djellaba’s hood.  A quick tug smoothed out the fall of material, and he returned to the street with a shuffled step and a slight hunch to his back. He was a thirty minute walk from his safehouse, if he doubled back to check for pursuit. In sixteen hours, he’d be back home.

Far off in the distance, he heard sirens, and he smiled.

 

~~~

 

**Friday, 25 January 2013**

By the end of the week, James was able to present Gareth with a modest list of accomplishments, though he saved the best for last. “What’s this?” Gareth asked when James slid a memory stick across the desk.

“A rollout plan to secure every facet of our network, from email to environmental systems, including new encryption for our field offices _and_ upgraded internal security.” Gareth raised his brows, and James smirked, continuing, “To be completed in a shade under three months, if we follow the first budget. If we take the more conservative budget, we’re looking at twelve, though we can adjust for anything in between.”

At the word ‘budget’, Gareth winced. He slotted the memory stick into place and clicked to open it. “We’re already in the red due to the infrastructure rebuild.”

“Only MI6 was hit,” James pointed out calmly, watching Gareth’s eyes. He was focused on the contents of the memory stick — he _wanted_ James to convince him that the upgrade was mission critical. “Other organisations weren’t, but they’re just as vulnerable.”

“Everyone’s scrambling — _Christ!_ ”

Figuring Gareth had just seen the bottom line for the budget, James said, “We can reduce our costs by bringing in outside help. We train other agency technicians in our methodology in exchange for free labour, which significantly reduces the personnel cost. And we can recoup more by contracting our expert’s services to perform a security analysis on their networks.”

“This... isn’t how things are done,” Gareth said thoughtfully.

James nodded. “But if you can sell the idea, we’ll be secure in three months.”

“Who came up with this? Marsh?”

James nearly brought up Z’s name, but it occurred to him at that moment that Gareth — with his bespoke suits and impeccable manners and public school attitude — had no idea that Z existed. And the moment he discovered the casually-dressed, foul-mouthed genius, Z would be sacked and James would be reprimanded, if not sacked himself, for keeping him hidden.

James would be damned before letting Gareth take Z away. Irreverent or not, Z was too bloody useful — too bloody _critical_.

“It was a team effort.”

 

~~~

 

“Do it,” James said, folding his arms on top of Z’s whiteboard to dangle the memory stick in front of him.

Z’s chair creaked as he leaned back and looked up at James. “The last time someone said that to me, she didn’t leave the bed for the whole fucking weekend.”

Maybe it was the way his hair fell in black waves around his face, rather than standing in aggressive spikes, or maybe it was just his smile, but he looked friendlier this morning. Or maybe he just hadn’t done laundry for days, since instead of his usual tight, dark clothing, he wore a fuzzy red jumper that James suspected was cashmere and black flannel trousers. Apparently, Z wasn’t entirely made up of sharp edges after all.

Wondering if Z’s clothing signalled a truce with office regs, James laughed and twitched the memory stick. “Operation Fix This Fucking Shit is go.”

Z’s eyes lit up, and he sat forward, snatching the memory stick from James’ fingers. “Are you fucking serious? You got the suit to agree?”

“That was the mission. I don’t fail,” James said confidently, and it was only a little bit of a lie.

“Fuck, yes,” Z hissed gleefully and leaned back again, eyes fixed off in the distance. He drummed his fingers on his keyboard, muttering, “If I put in the fucking purchase order — or I can source it myself — overnight shipping — fucking Monday —”

James circled the whiteboards to lean his hip against Z’s desk. “Or you could take the weekend off,” he interrupted smoothly. “You’ve already worked enough this week, don’t you think?”

Z grimaced and glanced up at him through his fringe, artlessly charming. “Q’s on a mission,” he said bluntly.

“Would you like me to keep an eye on him?”

The offer seemed to surprise Z, and James felt another twinge of irritation. Did no one at MI6 understand _teamwork_?

Then again, after years of Boothroyd slowly losing his grasp on the department and the incident with Silva, maybe it was trust, not teamwork, that was in short supply. No wonder why Z was working himself to exhaustion, if he thought he was his brother’s sole support. Who could he trust to watch over his brother but himself?

Z stared at James, hazel eyes shadowed. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, shaved clean and smooth today, and ran his left hand over the keyboard as though petting it. Patiently, James let the seconds tick past, comfortable under Z’s thoughtful, assessing regard. Z was brilliant and erratic and dangerous under the right circumstances, but he wasn’t strung tripwire-taut the way his twin was.

“He’s coming home,” Z finally said. “He messaged me from his safehouse just after four this morning.”

A surprising surge of relief shot through James at the news — news that should have been delivered through proper communications channels hours ago. Did MI6 even make an effort to track operatives in the field, or did MI6 simply turn them loose and hope they’d eventually come back?

 _Later_ , James reminded himself. For now, he was simply glad that Q was coming home. While he had no doubt that Q was as brilliant at field operations as Z was with computers, there were always complications. James let that relief show in his smile as he asked, “Will he come here first, or should you be there to meet him at home?”

Z huffed in amusement. “Fucking wanker, go home after a mission? He’ll come here first, just to see what the fuck he’s missed.”

“And to check for a new mission?” James guessed.

Z rolled his eyes. “Like he gives a shit about two-week fucking home soil downtime between field assignments?”

James understood that all too well. He’d once been the type to throw himself obsessively into work, searching for answers or respite or just a distraction. He wondered what Q was running from.

He couldn’t pry. Not yet. So instead he smiled and said, “If I can help, let me know.”

Z returned the smile, soft and unguarded. “Thanks.”

Not bad, James thought as he headed for his office. He’d made excellent progress on getting Z firmly on his side. More importantly, though, he might have just made a friend.

 

~~~

 

Q was accustomed to the startled looks he got as he made his way through MI6 to the tunnels below. He hadn’t bothered to report in after the mission, mostly because he felt it was redundant. The fact that he was back meant that he’d succeeded and had survived. Nothing else mattered to anyone but Z.

Down in the tunnels, he fought the temptation to relax his vigilance. The tunnels were familiar, secure, but nowhere in MI6 was truly _safe_. Silva had proved that. So he kept watch on everyone and everything as he navigated the workstations to Z’s semi-private domain in the corner —

Or not so private. The sight of neatly-cropped blond hair, just visible over the whiteboards, brought Q up short. Someone was in Z’s area, in arm’s reach, someone Q couldn’t immediately identify.

Still riding the razor’s edge, Q catalogued his weapons, determined Z’s most likely physical position beyond the whiteboards, sketched a rough outline of his possible target. Just under six feet tall, turned sideways to face Z, either seated on or leaning against the side of Z’s secondary desk. Casual body language, meant to encourage openness and receptiveness. Placed higher than Z in a show of dominance. Male.

Threads of fire slithered into Q’s veins as rage began to overtake the coldly calculating assassin’s mindset. The gun pressed to his ribs called to him. He visualised the blinking green _armed_ lights bracketing the hard sights. The bullet would skim a hairsbreadth from the top of the whiteboard. A high cranial shot. Not necessarily immediately fatal.

But imagination and action weren’t one and the same. Q had the self-restraint to not act, because old, bone-deep protectiveness went further than anger. He couldn’t be caught, or Z would be alone.

On the heels of that rational thought came clarity. There was no reason to overreact. He could put an end to the situation without bloodshed. Fear could be a powerful motivator all the same.

Seconds later, Q’s target moved from beside the desk and came into view. Q faded back against the wall, cutting off line-of-sight, because his target was none other than ‘Doctor’ Bond. Had he been talking to Z as supervisor to technical team lead? Had he been sniffing about for intel? Or had it been fatally misplaced _interest_?

Only when Bond disappeared into the upstairs office did Q slip back into the work centre. He went to Z’s desk, very much aware of sightlines from the balcony.

When he saw Z, though, the relief he always felt at being reunited with his brother turned to ash. Z’s androgynous beauty was definitely on the less masculine side of the scale today — common enough when things were going well and Q was on his way home from a mission, but too easily misinterpreted by someone who didn’t know Z. And men, Q knew all too well, could be foolishly persistent when it came to an interesting mystery.

Z grinned and spun his chair so he could kick at Q’s shin with a trainer instead of his usual heavy boots. “Welcome back.”

“Marrakech isn’t so nice that I’d stay longer than necessary,” Q said, nearly perching on the edge of the desk as Bond had done. He stopped himself and instead asked, “Do you need to be here much longer?”

“Twenty minutes. The fucking news I have for you,” Z answered, grinning with sudden incandescence that lifted Q’s spirits. Whatever Bond had done, he hadn’t pushed too hard. Q could probably let him off with a crystal clear warning.

“Twenty minutes,” Q agreed. More than enough time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Friday, 25 January 2013**

The MI6 building was a labyrinth of offices, hallways, conference rooms, break rooms, and so on, big enough to confuse anyone for the first two months of employment. That, James thought as he stepped out of the lift, was nothing compared to what hid _below_ MI6. Tunnels, storerooms, garages — and apparently the division of Site Security responsible for employee vehicles.

He wasn’t one to get attached to material possessions, but the Aston Martin was his treasure. To have it damaged in a car park accident at MI6, of all places... Irritation prickled through him again, and he took a moment to compose himself. It wasn’t Security’s fault. At least, he damned well hoped it wasn’t, or he _would_ get angry.

The office was tucked away in an odd corner. Cinderblock walls, a metal door with a frosted glass window cross-hatched with chicken wire. Old security precautions. There was no card reader — just a chipped plastic sign that read _Security Stn A151-67_ , which matched the location on the notification email James had received five minutes ago. He hoped this was something innocent like paperwork for a permanent parking sticker so he could get it sorted out and be back to TSS before Z left for the day. With luck, Z would be willing to meet offsite some time over the weekend. Maybe he’d open up to James, away from the confines of MI6.

James pushed open the door and took a single step before old instincts came roaring to life. He twisted, raising a hand, but he’d been complacent, his attacker ready. The world spun as a hand caught his throat with bruising force, making him see spots. Air wheezed from James’ lungs as his back hit the wall.

Thank God he’d switched from a shoulder holster to an in-waistband one. His Walther was in his hand in an instant, though there was no way he’d manage an incapacitating shot. The leg was the best hope he had, and even that wasn’t a sure thing. His attacker’s body had him trapped —

And _fuck_ , the press of a knife’s sharp point in the tender flesh under his jaw made him freeze. Blood welled up, a hot, liquid counterpoint to the stinging pain.

Every irrational instinct was screaming for him to shoot, to kneecap the bastard if necessary, but intellectually he knew how very little pressure it would take for the knife to enter his body. The wrong twitch could have him dead, and this was all too well planned for the attacker to take the risk that someone was nearby.

A tiny corner of his mind thought that Z was right — gunshot sensors _were_ necessary for MI6 internal security after all, as long as they were kept away from the firing ranges. He’d be pleased, assuming James survived to tell him so.

For now, James didn’t move. Barely breathed. Refused to give in to anger and shoot. _Control_ , he whispered to himself, and concentrated on learning everything he could about his attacker.

James’ height or close enough not to matter. Thin and strong, body all sharp edges and whipcord muscles. Light, controlled breathing. This wasn’t a junkie who’d found some undiscovered, unsecured entry into MI6 tunnels and was looking for a mark. There wasn’t a hint of tremor in the hand holding the knife to his skin.

Where was his attacker’s other hand? James wanted to look, but it was too dark for him to see, and the knife held him paralysed.

“Which do you prefer? Commander or doctor?” asked a quiet voice that was shockingly familiar but impossible. Z wouldn’t —

 _Q_.

The panic didn’t ebb right away. The last time they’d crossed paths, James had sensed Q’s dangerous nature too close to the surface, as if any provocation could set him off. Now, something _had_ done, and he’d chosen James as his target, for whatever reason.

A tiny part of James’ mind was actually grateful for that. Officially, he was the head of Technical Services Section, but unofficially he was the handler for the Alphas. He had the training and experience to handle this, as long as he stayed calm. Better for him to have the chance to end this without violence than for Q to have chosen a different target, one who could provoke the twitchy agent into committing murder.

James eased his finger off the Walther’s trigger. His training told him to establish a rapport. Take firm but gentle control of the situation. A ‘friendly’ attacker who was disoriented or traumatised by outside events wanted to latch onto something known — wanted someone to give guidance or clarify a confusing or hostile situation.

He knew he should erase the distance of a title, but it slipped out anyway, spoken calmly: “Doctor.”

“Interesting choice,” Q answered just as calmly. The knife never wavered. “You have training. You should have answered with ‘James’. Or ‘Jim’. You don’t seem the type to go by ‘Jimmy’.”

“James, if you must.” It came out clipped, laced with irritation. He loathed those nicknames and had made a point of refusing to accept them under any circumstance. He wouldn’t compromise on that now.

To his surprise, Q said, “Doctor, then,” rather than trying to escalate the already-tense situation by using one of those hated nicknames. “Commendably professional. It’s very easy to slip over the line, don’t you think?”

James chose not to point out that he was hardly the unprofessional one here. Instead, he closed his eyes, hoping to adjust more quickly to the darkness. There was light beyond the closed door, and though the glass inset was frosted, what little light bled through might be enough for him to see, if he was patient. And lucky.

“You were speaking with my brother earlier.”

This was about Z? Despite the darkness, James hid a frown, mind racing. Did he think James was _interested_ in Z? Old instincts died hard, and James lived beneath a mask that let him operate in a military environment — first in the Navy, then at Baskerville. But he was only human, and there was a chance, however slim, that Q had found out the truth.

It was painfully ironic that Z wasn’t _at all_ James’ type.

“Z’s network security upgrades have been approved,” James said, though the act of speaking was painful; the knife never moved.

Whatever Q had expected to hear, that wasn’t it. The knife twitched; the sting eased just a bit.

For a few seconds, stretching out into what could have been hours, neither of them spoke. Paradoxically, James relaxed; had Q wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. Fighting back and succeeding would alienate Q forever — he was too prickly, too on-edge to accept defeat graciously. Fighting back and failing would only diminish James in Q’s eyes. Instead, he had to _outthink_ Q.

“And?” Q demanded.

 _Balance_ , James thought. Q was pushing, fishing for information he didn’t have. If James resisted, Q would push harder.

Instead of trying to get Q to back down, James answered, “He has the budget to secure MI6 in three months.”

Q’s exhale was sharp. Frustrated.

James opened his eyes. The dull yellow-tinged lighting outside the office bled through enough that he could just barely distinguish the soft, formless mass of Q’s hair. The office was unhelpfully empty — at least the parts of it James could see. No desk James could use to trip Q up.

The gun might as well have been on Mars, for all the good it would do now. The last thing James wanted to do was to shoot Q. He would have holstered it, but the motion would draw Q’s attention.

“That wasn’t _professionalism_ that I saw, Doctor.” Seconds passed before Q added, “What exactly is your interest in my brother?”

With any other TSS tech, James would’ve backed down, but he _needed_ to get closer to Z — both as his route into the Alpha Programme and to secure MI6’s network. So he calmly answered, “He’s my best team lead for network issues. That’s all.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to expect _anything_ more from him.”

Anger in Q’s voice. James couldn’t risk feeding it, provoking Q into irrational behaviour. Struggling to hold onto a sense of calm, he let his shoulders relax, subtly concealing the Walther beside his thigh. If Q saw the weapon, he’d react, and they would both bleed.

“I told him to go home — that I don’t expect him to work this weekend.”

The knife jabbed, and another sting of pain shot through James. His hand clenched around the Walther’s grip.

“He told me you were safe,” James said, pulling back involuntarily. His scalp scraped against the cinderblock wall as he tipped his head up further. “He can work all the hours he wants, to support your missions.”

“That was never in question,” Q said, a hint of confusion creeping into his voice.

 _Stay calm._ James breathed steadily, waiting for Q to work through what was driving his actions. If Q forced James’ hand, James _would_ fight back, but not until then.

“I agree,” James finally said, once he was certain he could keep his voice steady. He wanted to tell Q that there was no need for the knife, but he suspected Q wouldn’t relinquish even that much control. “What do you need, Q? Tell me what you want me to do.”

“I expect you to stay away from him.”

“That’s not possible. I’m coordinating the network upgrade with him. I’m his direct supervisor.”

As Q leaned in close, the knife twisted, stealing James’ breath in a lightning flash of pain. James pulled his hands back against the wall, flattening the Walther, hiding the muzzle behind his leg. He debated trying to shove it into the back of his trousers, but that was too risky. Too noticeable.

Q’s voice dropped, cold and calm and deceptively soft, snow hiding the cutting edges of jagged ice. “Don’t play the idiot with me, Doctor. Stay away from him _outside of work_.”

James couldn’t speak without driving the knife in deeper. He could hardly even breathe. He nodded as best he could, barely a twitch.

Silence again. Breathing deeply to calm himself, James counted his heartbeats as they slowed. Q was still angry, still dangerous, but he had a way to safely end the conflict. James had conceded; Q had won. And if he didn’t believe James was telling the whole truth, he would follow his training. He would end the conflict. Watch James. Gather intel.

It seemed like hours before Q said, “We never spoke. There is no proof that I ever entered this room. The email that brought you here no longer exists.”

As if James was foolish enough to report this incident? He just gave another slight nod and ignored the sting as he said, “I understand.”

A touch on James’ chest startled him. His breath caught in surprise, and an instant later he felt Q’s fingers twitch in response.

Then the knife was gone, and James let out a quick, sharp exhale of relief. One last press of Q’s hand, and then the door hissed open. Yellow light sliced in, dim but blinding James all the same. He lifted his hand to push up his glasses so he could rub his eyes, and only then remembered he was still holding the Walther. With another exhale, this one shaky, James holstered the weapon.

Abruptly, he sat, ignoring what the concrete floor had to be doing to his clothes. With no target, no threat, the adrenaline coursing through his blood left him trembling. He bent his legs and folded his arms on his knees, taking deep, steadying breaths as he tried to figure out who had come out of this disaster ahead.

He put a hand to his throat, feeling the blood, and realised he couldn’t go back to work. There would be too many questions that he couldn’t answer. He was confident that he could make it to his car without being seen, as soon as the adrenaline wore off.

For now, he tried to plan his next steps. He hadn’t provoked Q to extreme violence — hadn’t pushed him into crossing a line that could never be uncrossed. And now he knew just how far Q would go to protect his brother. Given time, he could figure out how to use Q’s protective nature in a way that would benefit them all.

Even without Q’s final, unspoken threat, James wouldn’t have reported this. Q was erratic and dangerously close to losing control, but he was very, very good. James hadn’t had a bloody chance at escape, and if he’d tried to fight free, there was no question he would have ended up badly wounded or dead. Q was a valuable asset — one MI6 couldn’t afford to lose unless there was no other choice.

He only got up when he realised he was rubbing a hand over his chest. He could still feel the press of Q’s fingers through his shirt, even more distinct than the bleeding cut under his jaw, and it occurred to him that he and Q had never been formally introduced. Had never shaken hands.

Somehow, it was fitting that his first contact with the assassin would be an attack that left James conscious not of the blood from Q’s knife but of the warmth from his touch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Friday, 25 January 2013**

“What the fuck are they going to do in seven years?”

Q barely heard the question over the drag queen’s heartfelt singing. He looked up from his tablet. “What?”

“Twenties Night,” Z explained, throwing a quick grin Q’s way before he turned back to watch the singer. Artificial candlelight drew highlights in Z’s slicked-down hair and sparkled over the tiny diamond studs that replaced his usual piercings. He wore a body-hugging black pinstripe suit over a white shirt and tie; the suit was sleeveless, showing the tattoos on his bared arms. The pipe-smoking, elegantly-dressed fox on his shoulder winked at Q from behind a monocle.

Distracted by the file he’d been reading, Q took a few seconds to catch up. He smiled, looking around the bar. Twenties Night was a semi-regular event, held whenever the lead singer, Jezebel Starlight, was in town.

“Nineteen-twenties Night doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Q agreed, grinning back at Z.

Reaching across the table, Z flicked a finger against the back of the tablet. “Anything interesting?”

Q glanced down at the files he’d acquired while Z had been showering and dressing. Z had restricted his preliminary search on his new boss to military and employment files; tonight, Q had gone a level deeper, hoping to learn more about the man who’d behaved so oddly — so _calmly_ — when he’d walked into Q’s trap.

This wasn’t the right place for any sort of work discussion, but Q never lied to his brother. He turned the tablet around, and immediately the bright screen went blank, at least from his point of view. The screen overlay filtered the display, blanking it out at any viewing angle but straight-on.

Curious, Z lifted the tablet and skimmed the screen. His brows shot up as he glanced over the edge, meeting Q’s eyes. “Why are you profiling him?” he asked, returning the tablet.

Taking it back, Q said, “I thought he was hitting on you. I suppose not.”

“You are so fucking overprotective,” Z said, laughing as he turned his attention back to the singer.

Q smiled and looked back down at the decree absolute ending the five-year marriage of BOND, JAMES and DI VICENZO, TERESA (DRACO, TERESA). The woman’s name was familiar, though Q couldn’t quite place it. His curiosity would have to wait until he got home, though; his tablet didn’t have the tools necessary to break into a public records search.

The decree absolute was the only thing of interest he’d found. Bond owned a vintage Aston Martin DB5, registration BMT 216A. While at Baskerville, he’d lived in a cottage that was personnel housing, though he had inherited his family’s estate, Skyfall Lodge, up in the middle-of-nowhere, Scotland. His credit history was spotless, his bank accounts substantial, his retirement account sufficient to keep him in comfort if he retired tomorrow.

Honestly, Q didn’t know why he’d bothered running the secondary search on Z’s boss. Whoever he’d been in the SBS, he was no longer the same man; James Bond was no threat to anyone.

Q had gone into their earlier encounter expecting a fight, not immediate surrender. Surrender, but no _fear_ , he thought as he turned off the tablet. For a man who’d been behind a desk (or a lab table) for the last ten or so years, Bond had been curiously calm. Q had hurt him, drawn his blood, but he hadn’t broken. He hadn’t begged for his life or for Q to stop. He hadn’t tried to pull rank as an executive. He hadn’t even _asked_.

Q remembered feeling the fast but steady beat of his heart. The light, controlled breathing. Even physiologically, he hadn’t been panicked. Fear hadn’t held him paralysed. There was nothing weak about the body Q had touched. He’d felt solid muscle under the softly misshapen cardigan.

Bond could have fought back. He had _chosen_ to surrender.

The thought made Q shift uncomfortably as his mind twisted the encounter, painting an image not of aggression but of something more intimate. _Surrender, but no fear_.

He looked across the table again, needing a distraction, but Z was entirely focused on two women at a nearby table. Both were attractive and curvy, dressed in matching sequined gowns, hair pinned up in elaborate curls, with the sort of impish smiles that were tailor-made to steal Z’s attention.

“Both or just one?” Q asked with a little smile.

Z huffed, glancing away only long enough to tell Q, “Why come between friends?”

“I’ll get a hotel tonight, if you want.”

Z shot him another look, his smile fading. “Not interested in anyone here?”

Q shrugged, thinking of the security office and Z’s boss — and then he shook his head, because he was _not_ interested in Z’s boss. He just wasn’t interested in anyone here, either.

 

~~~

 

**Saturday, 26 January 2013**

“No shit? Who do I have to fuck to get my hands on one?”

It wasn’t the voice that dragged Q to consciousness; it was the rhythmic _thud-thud-thud_ of River’s tail banging against the wall. The puppy was more effective than any alarm clock.

“Why the fuck did I not know about this before?”

Z’s voice faded into laughter as he passed by Q’s bedroom. River stayed, scratching at the door until Q pulled himself out of bed.

“Patience,” he shouted at her, though he shouldn’t have bothered. As commands went, she’d barely mastered ‘sit’ much less ‘wait patiently for the half-asleep assassin to unlock the door’.

As soon as the door opened, she let out a joyous _whooo_ sound, streaked past Q, and dove into the still-warm duvet. A twist and wriggle put her under the blankets, smack in the middle of the bed, with only her muzzle sticking out.

Q stared blearily at her, leaning against the wall for support. “Come in. Make yourself at home,” he muttered.

The blanket twitched as her tail wagged twice, but she didn’t otherwise move. Apparently, he wasn’t welcome back in his own bed.

Rubbing at his eyes, he turned and went into the hallway, feet dragging on the runner. A brief stop at the loo didn’t wake him up, though he splashed cold water on his face to try. He went back to his room long enough to pick up pyjama bottoms and confirm that his bed was still occupied. Then, thoughts focused solely on caffeine, he wandered in the direction of the kitchen.

Z’s laugh and the smell of hot coffee teased Q a bit closer to wakefulness. “Fuck, I’d love to see that,” Z said, his voice a warm, friendly purr — not quite sexual teasing, but close.

Q froze, wondering if Z’s two bedmates from last night were still here. He rarely allowed anyone to actually spend the night, and he _never_ brought them down here.

‘Down here’ was where the brothers actually lived, beneath the modest little house aboveground. The safehouse had been built ten years ago for a paranoid stockbroker whose portfolio had collapsed months after construction had ended. Already rich from his civilian work, Z had picked up the house and offered it as a refuge for Q, who’d still been in the SAS at the time. It was perfect, especially once Q moved to MI6.

The security door at the top of the stairs was disguised to look like part of the pantry. Q walked up the stairs and out into the kitchen, where he found Z sitting on the counter, coffee cup in his hands, Bluetooth in one ear. He shot Q a grin and reached out to flick the power switch on the kettle.

Q sank down onto a stool at the breakfast bar and dropped his head down onto his folded arms. Tea, sofa, reruns on telly. Maybe he’d go to the shooting range with Z later. Or tomorrow. Tomorrow sounded better. Today, he didn’t have to be on a plane or in a car or anywhere he didn’t want to be.

“Next time you go back, can I go with?” Z asked hopefully. After a few seconds, he laughed his cheerful, friendly laugh — not the sharp, sarcastic one that he used for most people. “Fucking perfect. Though if nanotech is that far along, you’ll put my brother out of business.”

Q’s head snapped up as the fog of sleep vanished under Z’s words. Who the _hell_ was he talking to?

Z hadn’t noticed Q’s reaction. He was grinning, eyes bright, kicking his heels against the cabinet doors. “You have no fucking clue, the ideas I have. But yeah, defence first... Oh, don’t give me that bullshit.” He rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Humans are fucking animals. Tech gets advanced in war. _Then_ it finds its way into medical and shit. We’ll use nanos to fucking kill each other long before we cure disease — or at the very least, we’ll use the little fuckers to fix battlefield wounds. Bleeding, infection, shit like that.”

Q waved a hand to get Z’s attention. Quickly, he signed, _Who?_ and tapped his ear.

Laughing at whatever he heard on the earpiece, Z moved one hand from his coffee cup and twisted his fingers to spell out a name: _B-O-N-D_.

 

~~~

 

Even Alpha Programme agents had rules to follow, theoretically.

No unsanctioned action on home soil was one of the primary rules. There were rules about paperwork, mandatory physical fitness and marksmanship testing, and psych evaluations. Rules about inventory and who actually owned the weapons and kit the agents took into the field. Rules that most agents disregarded or had never bothered to learn.

And there were rules about information security. Those rules, the agents took seriously, for the most part. Information was the most powerful weapon, after all.

Q was very good at breaking rules.

He sat down at Mallory’s desk, gloved hands skimming over his keyboard. He’d set up a facial recognition hack to bypass the computer’s webcam, which would stealth-activate to verify that it was Mallory, rather than an intruder, who was physically present at the computer. The hack program was one that Z had been refining on and off for the last two months, though he’d finished it in a seven-hour programming marathon this morning, at Q’s request.

Now, after verifying that none of his actions were being logged, Q used Mallory’s password to access secure local files. While MI6 operated under the same general labour laws as civilian organisations, Q knew Gareth Mallory. They were both SAS. They both preferred to have as much intelligence as possible, and to hell with privacy laws.

Q could have got this information from Personnel, but their systems were almost secure, disconnected from all external networks. He’d have to physically infiltrate the department — no easy task even for him, considering that he’d dealt with most of the admins there at one point or another.

As Q had expected, Mallory had all of Bond’s information stashed away in a locked folder on his local drive. One more simple crack gave Q Bond’s address, the bank account number attached to payroll, pension scheme contribution percentage, and — _Aha!_ — a record of enquiry into employee use of the shooting range.

Interesting.

The enquiry pre-dated yesterday’s apparently-ineffective little chat; otherwise, Q might have suspected Bond was trying to belatedly sharpen his self-defence skills for when (not if) Q came after him again. Not that it mattered. Even if Bond started to carry a gun, that would just make Q’s life easier. If Bond insisted on pursuing Z, Q could easily arrange a fatal accident.

It was amazing how many people forgot to unload their guns when they sat down to clean them.

 

~~~

 

**Sunday, 27 January 2013**

James loved swimming. He supposed it was to be expected, after he’d grown up in northern Europe and spent summer holidays in the mountains when he would rather have gone to the shore. That love probably contributed to his decision to join the Royal Navy rather than another branch of the military — that and the fact that the Navy recruiter hadn’t asked about the incident that had got him kicked out of Eton.

James had hoped to join a gym in part to build some semblance of a social life, but none of the fitness centres near his new home were as well-appointed as the one in MI6’s basement. The pool in particular had caught his eye: saltwater rather than chlorine, with long lanes perfect for pushing himself, and no threat of rowdy children to disrupt his exercise.

Much as James wanted a social life, he _didn’t_ want to socialise with his co-workers. Old habits died hard, after all. So the first time he dove into the pool, it was minutes past five on a Sunday morning, the earliest he could coax Facilities into unlocking the gym for him. He changed into his swim trunks, left his clothes and Walther in his locker, and went into the pool room.

The darkness was broken only by yellow-tinged emergency lighting and the white lights glowing on the side walls. James went to the centre lane, where the water was a dark reflection of the pool’s shadowed floor. He could almost imagine himself standing above the pre-dawn sea. Quiet. Peaceful.

He started off hard and fast, cutting beneath the water’s surface as long as he could. Only when he needed a breath did he surface, moving seamlessly from the breaststroke to a freestyle deep-catch stroke, propelling himself forward. He lost himself in the stretch and pull of muscles, water flowing over skin, breath and blood and heartbeat pounding with rapid, steady beats. His eyes tracked his surroundings, the lane markers, the edge of the pool as he touched and turned, coiling in on himself like a serpent, striking out at the far side of the pool once more.

He didn’t count his laps. He swam until every muscle tingled, heat rising beneath his skin, lungs aching from the exertion. A harder push sent him gasping to the edge of the pool, where he hung on long enough to clear the water from his eyes. A few blinks scattered the drops that remained on his lashes.

Then he set out again, slow and lazy now, rolling onto his back to let the water hold him afloat. He made a game of it, steering with languid kicks, trying not to cheat and look until his shoulders bumped into one floating lane marker or the other. He gave himself a few laps to cool down, though the pool was heated. Another advantage.

Caught up in the high of his exertions, he got out of the water, rubbing briskly at his arms and chest. He’d neglected to bring a towel, and he shivered in the damp, cool air as he went for the locker room. He had more than enough time for a leisurely breakfast before the shops opened; he needed more furniture than the bed and antique chest he’d brought from Devon.

One more step carried him to the rubber anti-slip mat just inside the locker room. He lifted his foot for a second step, thinking only about finding a decent coffee shop that wasn’t a trendy chain, when a weight hit him from the side, spinning him off-balance. He slapped a hand out against the wall, pushed off, and brought up his elbow. He connected with hard bone. Heard a grunt. Turned, throwing his weight behind a low punch, only to have it deflected by the sweep of his opponent’s arm.

A kick nearly caught him, but he rode out the impact. He threw another punch. Blocked. The close confines of the entryway worked against both him and his opponent. He had to move.

 _Space_ , he thought, and took the next blow so he could yank open the door. A foot hooked his. He dropped, turned it into a roll, and came up prepared to block the kick he’d expected.

A whole body hit him instead, and he allowed himself to fall backwards, turning his momentum into a throw aimed to send his opponent flying towards the pool. The bastard was too lithe, too fast —

“Q,” James said as he twisted up to one knee, hands braced on the rough floor. His skin was burning with abrasions, heart pounding in his ears. The swim had exhausted him; he’d fought back on pure adrenaline and instinct.

Q crouched at the pool’s edge, the toe of one trainer dipped into the water. Long, dark strands of hair tumbled into his eyes. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and the hazel in his eyes was nearly lost to his pupils. His long-sleeved shirt was dark, hugging his body. His jeans were wet at the knees.

“Very good, Doctor Bond,” Q said softly, “especially for an executive. It’s unfortunate that your intellect doesn’t match your fighting skills.”

“What —” was as far as James got before Q attacked again, somehow finding traction on the wet floor. He hit like a bullet, driving James over. His skull cracked painfully against the rough floor, stunning him. He tensed but held back the impulse to retaliate, blocking Q’s next blow without taking the opening.

 _Fuck_. As James tried to twist free, he remembered Q’s demand that James stay away from Z. Yesterday, he’d spent almost two hours discussing the network upgrade plan with Z — a call _Z_ had initiated.

Not that Q seemed to give a damn about that distinction.

“Q.” The word was clipped, lodged in his throat when Q’s hand locked under his jaw, cutting off his air. James’ hands jerked up, but he stopped short of grabbing for Q’s wrists. “Q —”

“What part of ‘keep away from my brother’ did you not understand?” Q demanded, bracing his free arm across James’ chest. He was all sharp points, elbow digging into the hollow of James’ shoulder, knees holding James’ hips trapped. His feet were hooked over James’ legs, trainers scraping over abraded skin.

Instead of struggling to gasp out an answer, James stared expectantly up at Q. It was a gamble — James didn’t particularly feel like being suffocated into unconsciousness, but he suspected Q wanted him awake and able to answer.

Slowly, Q’s fingers relaxed. James fought to inhale slowly rather than gasping for breath. The spots faded from James’ eyes, and he tipped his head to ease the throbbing ache at the back of his skull.

“We can’t keep meeting like this.”

A hint of uncertainty cracked the edges of Q’s cold expression. He expected fear, anger, resistance — not calm humour.

After it became clear that Q wasn’t going to answer, James continued, “We both want your brother to remain at MI6. He’s your best support — and he’s my best network specialist.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Q said.

“No. He’s not.”

Q’s eyes narrowed. “You —”

“I didn’t call him, Q. He called me.”

The press of Q’s fingers eased, relaxing over James’ pulse.

“We talked,” James continued calmly. “That’s all, Q. We talked. We came up with a preliminary plan for next week, and we discussed some potential gear upgrades for you and the other field agents.”

“You talked _all morning_.”

“It was a talk that the Technical Services Section department lead should have had years ago. I know your brother’s been with MI6 for only a few months, but we need his talents.”

“Major Boothroyd’s priority was weapons, not computers,” Q admitted.

“I’m not Major Boothroyd.”

Q’s shoulders relaxed; the press of his feet against James’ shins eased.

Encouraged, James said, “You’re loyal to your brother. You’re very protective of him. But what are you protecting him from?” A hint of tension returned, and James silently swore. Quickly, he said, “I’m just trying to understand, Q. Your brother’s very strong-willed. Absolutely brilliant. If someone’s after him, maybe —”

“No one’s after him.” Q stared down at James, hazel eyes narrowing a bit.

“Including me,” James said calmly, meeting Q’s eyes. “I’m not the enemy here, Q. Not yours. Not your brother’s.”

Slowly, Q moved his hand from James’ throat and sat up. “All right,” he said quietly as he slid off James’ body a bit too gracefully for comfort. He rose and extended his hand. “I apologise.”

That was more of a concession than James had expected. He accepted Q’s help, cataloguing his bruises and injuries, now that the threat had passed. _Most likely_ passed, he corrected himself wryly. Q was still on a hair-trigger; James had to step carefully to try and ease him down.

“It’s all right, Q. I’ll never fault someone for trying to protect family,” James said truthfully.

Q’s expression became subtly curious, and he stared at James as though trying to decipher his thoughts. James held his gaze steadily, not quite bothering to hide a smile. He watched one corner of Q’s dark, expressive mouth rise.

Q was curious, yes, but was he also _interested?_ James suspected he was.

But what the _fuck_ was James doing encouraging that interest? Q was gorgeous, and James’ social life was worse than it had been in his earliest military days, but Q was a bloody _assassin_. And James was, if not his boss, then his informal handler.

“Q,” James began, though he had no idea what he was going to say.

A single step reduced the distance between them to inches. Q’s lashes swept over his eyes as his gaze took a slow path to James’ chest and farther down. James’ heart slammed into his ribs, and he fell silent under Q’s scrutiny.

As Q looked back up, his hand followed, fingertips skimming over James’ arm. The touch was raw and electric, searing James’ skin. He flinched at the sting as Q found a bloody abrasion, and when James’ breath hitched, Q’s gaze snapped up, trapping James in place. It took another push, painful and deliberate, for James to realise that he hadn’t reacted as Q had expected. He hadn’t jerked away from the pain.

Slowly, Q curled his fingers, scraping his nails over the abrasion as he let his hand fall.

 _Time to leave_ , James thought, because if Q was going to say anything — or, worse, _do_ anything — then James needed time and distance so he could remember that they would never be anything more than colleagues.


	7. Chapter 7

**Saturday, 2 February 2013**

Video chat from a cafe wasn’t precisely a secure method of communication, but not everything in James’ life required secret clearance. Still, he’d long since got in the habit of using a personal VPN, and an old friend at Baskerville had set him up with a program to monitor for any suspicious connections.

She was still gorgeous, James thought. Her rich brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, sleek and shining with highlights. Dramatic black eyeliner and smoky shadow gave depth to expressive eyes the precise shade of the coffee in James’ cup. Black tailcoat, snowy white shirt and ascot... He recognised the uniform. Apparently she’d taken up dressage since returning to Italy.

“James. You’re looking well,” she said, glancing down at her unseen keyboard. James heard a couple of clicks and hoped she was closing out background programs rather than opening them.

“As are you.” Out of the webcam’s field of view, he toyed with his coffee cup. “I’ve moved to London. I wanted to give you my new information.” Diplomatically, he refrained from pointing out that he’d moved two weeks ago.

She waved a hand, and James caught a flash of crimson from her short nails. “Email it to me.”

“I did. You didn’t respond.”

She pouted at him, turning her attention to something other than the screen. “I’ve been busy.”

 _Busy_ , James knew, was a matter of perspective. Irritation flickered through him, though he was able to ignore it. He’d had far too much practice. “Doing well in your competitions?”

“We’ll see. Papa’s bought me a new horse.” She narrowed her eyes and glared at the screen. “He misses you. He always wanted a son,” she added bitterly.

A pop-up window in the corner of his screen alerted him to suspicious activity, despite his VPN. Interesting. And damned near impossible for the average coffee shop hacker... which was all he needed to know.

“I spoke to him,” James said neutrally. As part of his security checks, he’d disclosed his relationship with the Draco family a half dozen times since meeting Tracy. Her father, Marc-Ange, had been a useful connection, which meant James’ career at Baskerville hadn’t been in danger. He couldn’t take that same chance with MI6, though. If Marc-Ange fell to the temptation of crime, James could be ruined.

“And not to me?” she demanded irrationally, as if he hadn’t been trying to get in touch with her for a damned month.

“He understands why I can’t —”

“Can’t, can’t,” Tracy interrupted sharply. “It’s always _can’t_ with you, James. You _can’t_ take a proper holiday. You _can’t_ —”

“Tracy, _enough!_ ” he shot back, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he was in a public place; he’d specifically chosen to call Tracy from a cafe rather than the privacy of his house. He prided himself on being even-tempered under the worst conditions, but Tracy... Tracy was the perfect storm of faded love and lingering resentment and guilt, and she wasn’t happy unless every conversation ended in shouting and tears.

 _“Va a quel paese, James!”_ she spat, standing. He had a momentary view of her slender waist and white riding breeches, hips framed by her black tailcoat, before she smacked her laptop screen. The webcam’s picture jumped, tipping up to show her face. _“Sei insopportabile! Sei un marito schifoso, sempre lì a fare il lecchino con mio padre e a fare i tuoi maledetti giochetti! Puoi anche marcire all'inferno per quanto mi riguarda, stronzo!”_ Her hand filled the screen an instant before the call disconnected.

James sighed and closed the video chat program. She still had the fiery personality that had first caught his eye — the devil-may-care attitude that had convinced him that maybe they could make a marriage work, despite all the reasons not to even try. He still loved her, but he didn’t miss her.

The monitoring program caught his eye again. He couldn’t do anything about Tracy or her father, but _this_ he could fix.

 

~~~

 

The Green Man was barely a step above most restaurant chains, but it had two distinct advantages: It allowed dogs, and it was conveniently close to Bond’s favourite cafe. As a bonus, the cottage pie wasn’t bad, Q thought as he finished the last of his lunch, snickering over his laptop.

“Oi.” Z kicked Q’s shin under the table, interrupting his third review of the video. Startled by the sudden motion, River lifted her head, chain lead jangling. “What’s so funny?” Z asked, reaching for Q’s laptop.

Still laughing, Q queued the last part of the video before he relinquished the laptop. “I hope your Italian’s not rusty. Let me know if you need it translated.”

Z’s pierced brow shot up sceptically as soon as he saw the screen. He pushed his half-eaten lunch aside and tapped the touchpad to start the video.

 _“Go to hell, James!”_ spat the woman on the video. Z’s eyes went wide in surprise, and he grinned. Obviously he remembered his Italian lessons. _“You’re insufferable! You’re a terrible husband, always kissing my father’s arse and playing your damned games. Go to hell, arsehole!”_

Z let out a choked noise and grinned back at Q. “Fucking hell, you’re _still_ stalking him? What the fuck for?”

Trust Z to ask the one question Q wasn’t prepared to answer. With a shrug, Q took back his laptop and looked under the table to where River was sprawled. He knew that his body language was betraying his discomfort — he’d been trained to deceive, but he’d never been able to successfully lie to Z. He ruffled River’s fur and muttered, “I don’t know.”

And that was the bloody irritating truth. He had no reason to believe that Bond had interest in Z or any other man — or anyone at all. As far as Q could tell, the man had no social life. No nightclubs or pubs, no dates, not even a regular workout partner at the MI6 gym.

“You need a fucking hobby, Brother. When did you last get laid?”

“Sod off,” Q muttered, closing his laptop.

Motion caught his eye. Always wary, he looked up, assessing the man who’d just entered the pub.

 _Shit_. It was Bond. What the _fuck_ was Bond doing here?

Z could read Q’s body language. He tensed, smile fading into concern, and shot Q a silent, questioning frown. Q lifted his hand just enough to let Z know that there was no immediate danger.

Bond made no pretence about his reason for entering the pub. He looked around, spotted Q, and walked right towards the booth. Q wanted to ask if Z had called or texted his boss to meet him, but Bond was already in earshot.

His only greeting was a brief nod. He set down a cardboard cup sleeve bearing the logo of the cafe next door. Underneath, he’d written _‘Contessa Teresa de Vicenzo’_ and an international phone number with the country code +39. Italy.

“It’s always better to get your information directly from the source,” Bond said evenly as he pushed the cup sleeve towards Q. “She often visits France, but she prefers Italy. The climate suits her.”

For once in his life, Q had _no idea_ what the hell to say. He simply watched Bond reach down to ruffle River’s fur as she nosed at him.

“She’s beautiful. Saluki?” Bond asked Q, not once looking at Z.

“Yes,” Q said automatically.

Bond smiled down at River, gave her one last pet, and then straightened back up. With one last nod, he turned and left. River took two steps after him before the lead brought her up short.

_What the hell?_

Before Q could move, Z picked up the cardboard sleeve and looked at the writing. “His ex-wife?” he asked, glancing at the laptop.

Q nodded. “Apparently we need to figure out how he detected our program.”

Z stared at him, not fooled for a moment by Q’s attempt at a diversion. “Or _you_ need to get your fucking head out of your arse and stop being a fucking stalker.”

 

~~~

 

**Monday, 4 February 2013**

_Draco, Marc-Ange, CMG (hon.)  
Born: 06 JUN 1943, Ajaccio, Corse-du-Sud, France_

_Father: Carlo Draco (deceased)_   
_Mother: Maria Cardini (deceased)_   
_Siblings: none_   
_Children: Teresa Draco (b. 15 FEB 1981, m. Count Giulio di Vicenzo 06 MAY 2000, widowed 19 OCT 2001, m. Cmdr James Bond, CMG, RN, 05 JAN 2002, d. 17 SEP 2006)_

_Education: unknown_  
 _Employment: Draco Shipping Consortium (ref. 19560817-668-990099 Unione Corse)_  
  
“Bloody hell,” Q whispered, staring at the last two words on the screen. He closed his eyes, wondering how the hell to slot this new information into the puzzle that was James Bond.

How could an honourably retired Royal Navy Commander — a bloody Companion of the Order of St Michael and St George! — have married a woman whose father was the head of the damned Unione Corse?

Q knew just enough about the Draco Shipping Consortium and its legacy — the infamous French Connection, back in the sixties and seventies, used to ship heroin from Southeast Asia to Marseilles for processing and then on to the United States for sale. That was another botched CIA disaster, a choice between two evils: a criminal empire or the French communists. In backing the Unione Corse, the CIA had set the stage for a smuggling empire that was one of the most powerful, most difficult to crack criminal organisations in all the world.

He looked back at the file, reading it rather than skimming. Marc-Ange Draco had been awarded an honorary CMG. It wasn’t unheard of for a foreigner to be given honorary awards for service to the Commonwealth, but for someone with ties to the Union Corse to be granted the _same_ award as an officer in the Royal Navy who’d gone on to marry his daughter? That wasn’t a coincidence.

He tried to pull up the referenced Unione Corse file, but it either wasn’t present on MI6 servers at all or it was secured even against Q’s hack. He could dig around tomorrow from the office, where it was easier to access classified material, but... was it necessary?

Bond had been vetted before he’d ever been allowed near MI6. SBS, the Defence Intelligence Group at Chicksands, Baskerville... He’d passed his security checks at every turn, and he’d never attempted to hide his marriage to Marc-Ange Draco’s daughter. The government knew. They _had to know_.

An information trade? Had Bond been permitted — perhaps even _encouraged_ — to marry Teresa Draco to get an operative close to Marc-Ange? If Bond were innocent of wrongdoing, he would have filed a contact report every single time he’d so much as received a postcard from Marc-Ange Draco. The potential intelligence was staggering. Even if their exchanges were innocent, the least clue — a planned vacation, a name mentioned in passing — could be enough to crack the Unione Corse for good.

Q raked a hand through his hair and exhaled, looking up at the white ceiling. Every bloody piece of information brought more questions than it did answers.

_Who the hell was James Bond?_

 

~~~

 

**Friday, 8 February 2013**

“Don’t you ever leave?” James asked, stopping at Bill’s open door. It was half-six, and Mallory, late for a weekend with his family, had just thrown James out with blanket approval of his security deployment project. Friday evening meetings were one of James’ best strategic weapons.

Bill stood up and walked around his desk. “Actually, I was waiting for you.” He stopped long enough to take his coat from the rack by the door, then joined James in the foyer. “Cathy and I are having a little get-together tomorrow night. The kids are at her brother’s for the weekend.”

“And you’re not taking advantage of the privacy?” James teased.

“All weekend? Cathy would poison my morning coffee by Sunday.” Laughing, Bill put on his coat. “Dinner, Saturday night. Just us and some friends from outside the office, though I was thinking of inviting Eve.”

James raised a brow, glancing at Eve Moneypenny’s vacant desk by the foyer’s entry door.

Bill caught his train of thought. “Don’t be ridiculous, James. Cathy has this friend —”

“God, Bill, if you tell me Cathy has this ‘friend’ for me as well...”

“I promise, she doesn’t.”

James caught the careful wording. “And do you?”

Pointedly, Bill turned to lock his office door. “I might know one or two people.”

“Bill —”

“I won’t say a word to them, James, but... really, it couldn’t hurt for you to meet someone. I’ve seen the Security reports of you coming in at ungodly early hours on weekends,” he scolded, lowering his voice. “MI6 will destroy you if you give it half the chance. You need a life outside the office.”

“I know,” James admitted reluctantly. But that didn’t mean blind dates were the answer. They’d never worked at Baskerville; he had no reason to believe they’d work here. “This sort of thing hasn’t ever turned out well for anyone involved.”

“We’d invite them anyway. If something comes of it, good for you. If not, no loss. Will you come?”

James nodded without any reluctance. In truth, now that he had an option, he couldn’t face the idea of spending the weekend alone. Again. “All right. What can I bring?”

“Nothing. Cathy’s hired a planner to take care of everything.”

James blinked. “Is this a get-together or a wedding rehearsal?”

“I’m hoping it’s a phase,” Bill said with a sigh. “But with the kids gone, she wants to go all-out.”

“Do I need to dig out my old dinner suit?”

Bill hesitated. “I’m... not entirely certain. Christ, she didn’t mention a dress code.”

Sympathetically, James kept from laughing. “Why don’t you call me tomorrow and let me know?”

“Or I’ll just show up at your place tomorrow afternoon, and we can order a bloody pizza,” Bill muttered. “I’ll call her on the way home, let her know you’re coming, and ask.”

“Actually...” James glanced towards Mallory’s door. It was soundproofed, but he was still in there, and he could come out at any moment. He led Bill out into the deserted hallway — the rest of the executive offices cleared out by six on Friday evenings — and quietly asked, “Would you mind inviting someone else?”

“Instead of you?” Bill asked blankly.

James laughed. “I’m not trying to duck out. I’m just... looking for a social excuse —”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Bill got a sly grin. “Who?”

“The Alphas aren’t quite executives, but —”

_“What?”_

James held up a hand and nudged Bill into walking for the lifts. “I need to get close to them, Bill. See how they operate outside work hours.”

Bill took a deep breath. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “I suppose it’s not _that_ odd. Any one in particular?”

“Q.”

Bill stopped in mid-step. When James looked back, Bill’s eyes narrowed. “You’re serious.”

James nodded. “He may not be senior, but he _is_ your best operative.”

“And he’s the closest to snapping, according to Psych. If he weren’t so bloody effective —”

“I know,” James interrupted, hiding a flinch. He’d known Q was in bad shape without any effective leadership, but he hadn’t realised Psych was aware of his state of mind. He’d expected Q to be the type to avoid Psych at all cost.

“Then why him? Any three others would be better.”

James shook his head. “That’s precisely why. If I can get into Q’s head, the rest of the Alphas will fall in line without a challenge.”

Bill grimaced. “I suppose...”

“And I have a rapport with his brother.” James raised a brow expectantly. “And while Mallory may not know Q’s brother exists, I know _you_ do.”

“I authorised Boothroyd’s hiring him,” Bill admitted, “but I can’t invite _him_ to the party. Cathy would poison you and me both.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” James smiled encouraging. “Invite Q. Invite Eve and a few others from the office to make it look less suspicious. I’ll make it up to you and Cathy.”

Bill took a deep breath. “God. All right. But if this turns into another disaster like your bloody divorce party —”

“Which was _your_ idea —”

“Then _you_ get to explain it to Cathy.”

James smiled gratefully. “I promise. And I can recommend you a good divorce lawyer.”

 

~~~

 

“Shit,” Q muttered, watching as the ‘M’ moved a step closer. Up-arrow, up-arrow, left... The damned AI was clever, though, and the ‘M’ moved to block his exit from the room. He’d have to lure it away.

“‘Shit’ what?” Z asked without looking away from his screen.

“A medusa. It’s going — damn,” Q muttered. “Stupid bloody death.” He rolled his shoulders, stretching to ease the tension of his position. “You almost done, or should I start another game?”

“Start another game.” Z flashed a grin at him. “It’s fucking awesome, seeing you get your arse kicked by ASCII characters. You and your fucking high scores.”

“Using arrow keys around a map made up of dots is a very different skillset from shooting enemies across a high-speed internet connection.” Resigned to at least another half hour, Q started a new game. He’d lost his tablet on his last mission — more to the point, it had accidentally stopped a knife from scoring his ribs — which meant he was gaming on a work laptop. _Rogue_ was the only game he’d been able to sneak past the computer’s security systems.

“Or shooting enemies across an alley, down two streets, and up three storeys,” Z added with a laugh.

Q grinned. “That _was_ good, wasn’t it?”

Before Z could answer, movement caught Q’s eye, visible in the thin gap between Z’s two whiteboards. The department was deserted — most everyone had gone home between five and quarter past, right after Bond had gone upstairs for his usual Friday afternoon meeting with Mallory.

“Tanner?” Q said softly, automatically looking in the direction of Bond’s office. He could just see the top quarter of the door — closed and dark.

The Chief of Staff reached Z’s desk just as Z and Q rose. “No emergencies,” Tanner said calmly, holding up his hand. “But if you have a moment, Q?”

Warily, Q closed the laptop and set it on Z’s desk. He didn’t say anything to Z — he didn’t have to. He just followed Tanner back through the work centre to an empty group workroom.

“Very clean work you did in Paris,” Tanner said approvingly as the door swung shut.

“Thank you.” Q kept his expression neutral, wondering what the Chief of Staff was up to. He preferred to get his information from after action reports and mission update briefings, not face-to-face conversations with the field agents, though he seemed generally in favour of funding the Alpha Programme.

Tanner hesitated a beat too long, betraying his discomfort. “Well, then. Since you’re back home earlier than expected, this is somewhat last-minute, but my wife and I are having a dinner party tomorrow night.”

Q couldn’t hide his blink. Did Tanner want... what? For him to work security for the party? Were there going to be other executives there? A target?

“Just a few friends, some colleagues from work. If you’re available, well, would you like to come?”

Another blink. Tanner was _inviting_ him to a party? Obviously — and _only_ him, or Tanner would’ve issued the invitation at Z’s desk, for both of them.

“Of course, sir. Thank you,” Q said far too quickly for Tanner to have picked up on his momentary confusion.

“No need for that. It’s ‘Bill’ after hours. Bill and Cathy. You weren’t at the Christmas party, so you missed meeting her.”

Q hadn’t attended a single MI6 Christmas party since he’d been lured out of the SAS. Even more suspicious now, he gave a casual, friendly smile. “I look forward to it, Bill.”

“I’ll email you my address. Tomorrow evening, around seven all right? And you can bring a date, if you’d like.”

“Seven’s just fine,” Q said, thinking Tanner wouldn’t appreciate any of the dates he’d want to bring — or Tanner’s wife wouldn’t, at least.

“Thanks. Sorry for the short notice. It’s blasted difficult scheduling around missions.”

Q spared himself and Tanner the effort of enduring more empty courtesies. He escorted Tanner back out into the work centre, and with a last exchange of goodbyes, they parted ways, Tanner to the lifts, Q back to Z’s desk.

“Another mission?” Z asked as Q sat back down and picked up the laptop.

Q’s eyes narrowed, and he tapped his fingers on the keyboard without paying attention to the game he’d started before. “Something like that, I think.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Saturday, 9 February 2013**

James knew better than to accept ‘no dress code’ at face value. Cathy would never throw a jeans-and-T-shirt party. James chose a dark blue shirt, grey V-neck jumper, new jeans, and brown boots on the off-chance that the rain started again. He’d stopped at the barber on the way home from work last night, so his hair was military short and neat. Much as he hated the little Walther, it was invisible when tucked into an in-waistband holster at the small of his back.

Good thing, too. Cathy would kill him for carrying a weapon to her party. But if James was going to rattle Q, he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it unarmed.

He drove to Bill’s house, trying not to think about Q. The Aston Martin was a good distraction. He’d been considering updating the suspension and replacing the seats, but it felt sacrilegious. Even if he left no exterior traces — no changed bodywork, fully restored upholstery — he’d know. But it would be a hell of a lot easier on his back.

He had to park down the street. Three cars in the driveway, at least a half dozen outside... Not a small party. Q would feel comfortable, blending into a crowd. He’d be able to keep his interactions superficial, moving through the milling people, observing without drawing attention to himself. He’d watch James... and James would watch him.

James picked up a bouquet of yellow roses — Cathy’s favourite — from the passenger seat. Then he got out of the car, looked up and down the quiet street, and headed for the Tanners’ residence.

Would Q be there? Bill said Q had accepted the invitation, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his mind — which would be disappointing, but unsurprising. To be an effective undercover agent, Q would be able to fake enjoyment of parties out in the field. That didn’t mean he’d willingly socialise with co-workers outside the office.

It would be disappointing, but not a disaster. Cathy knew how to throw one hell of a party, and while the thought of more ‘friends’ to meet was ominous, maybe James would luck out this time. After all, the right person had to be _somewhere_ out there.

Before James could ring the bell, the door began to slowly swing open, revealing a smiling blonde woman in an indigo dress the exact shade of her eyes. “James.”

He leaned down, hiding the flowers behind his back, and braced one hand on the arm of her wheelchair. He kissed her cheek and said, “Stunning as always, Cathy.”

“Flatterer,” she accused. Then James presented the flowers, and her eyes lit up. “Flatterer bearing gifts. Admission granted,” she said, laying the bouquet across her lap so she could turn her chair around.

James pressed the automatic door control. As the door swung shut, he followed Cathy into the spacious entrance hall. Classical piano echoed out from the living room, accompanied by the low hum of conversation. “Do I want to know how you knew I was here, or has a husband in espionage finally taught you to spy on the street?”

“Your exhaust sounds like a dying lawn mower. Still driving a car that’s ten years your senior, hm?” She beckoned, and a maid in a neat grey dress came forward.

“Some of us love the classics. Like your music,” he pointed out as he took off his coat and handed it to the maid.

“Mmm. James Rhodes. Your age, much longer hair, very hot.” She looked James up and down. “Though you’re not looking too bad. New jeans?”

He laughed. “If your husband catches you looking, he’ll come after me, not you.”

“That’s because I’m a better shot than you are,” she said, giving him a wink and a shove towards the living room. “Now go be social. And I mean _social_. No lurking in the corner or only chatting with Bill. I’m watching you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” But instead of heading for the living room, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Rematch, love. You, me, the MI6 firing range.”

She laughed and gave him a slap on the hip. “Any time, James. Any time.”

 

~~~

 

James made his rounds, stopping to greet a couple of co-workers by the fireplace. Cathy’s usual parties were small, with only fifteen or twenty people. There were close to thirty present, and more of them were from MI6 than James had expected. Probably Bill’s way of allaying Q’s suspicion at the invitation.

He ignored the caterers’ trays for now and instead made his way to the piano, where Eve Moneypenny was picking out notes in time to the music playing through the ceiling speakers. She wasn’t the highest ranking executive here, but her position as Gareth’s secretary made her the most well-connected.

She smiled and kept tapping the keys with her right hand as she lifted a glass of white wine with the left. “Doctor Bond.”

“James,” he corrected, leaning on the piano.

“James.” She smiled slyly up at him before leaning back to let her gaze wander down his body. He would have thought her flirting, but her eyes lingered in the wrong places: his forearms, his waist, his ankles. Places he might carry a small concealed weapon. “Lovely to see you outside the office.”

“And you.” He trailed his fingers over the keys near her hand. “One of your hidden talents?”

“Oh, I’m just a dabbler, really.” She played a couple of quick notes. “What about you, James? Any talents you’re hiding?” Her smile was open and friendly, her eyes sharp. She was digging for information. She was an agent-turned-admin. Had she washed out as an agent, or was she an admin as part of her fast track to an executive position?

Or, James mentally corrected, she just didn’t enjoy field work, and James was becoming a suspicious bastard. One month at MI6, and he was reverting to old bad habits.

He socialised with her for a few minutes until Bill interrupted, coming up beside him. “Eve, mind if I borrow James for a bit?” he asked, laying a hand on James’ back, a scant inch above the Walther.

“Only if you promise to bring me a replacement,” she teased, flashing a beautiful smile at them both.

“Of course.” Bill smiled and took hold of James’ arm, leading him away from the piano.

“I’ve been here all of fifteen minutes. Are we on a tight schedule?” James asked quietly.

“No sense in wasting time now, James,” Bill scolded, raising a brow at him.

Biting back a sigh, James asked, “How many, Bill?”

“One.” Bill squeezed his arm and then let go. “For now.” Resigned, James followed Bill towards the bar set up at the front windows, where two men and a woman were quietly chatting.

One of the men caught James’ eye immediately. Three inches taller than James, thinning light brown hair in a shaggy cut, neatly trimmed beard and moustache. When he turned, the nice profile became an even nicer view of blue-grey eyes.

Damn Bill for knowing James’ tastes, at least when it came to looks.

Bill cut smoothly into the conversation. “Sorry, can I borrow Nigel for a moment?”

“Excuse me.” The smile was just as nice as the eyes and profile, and it brightened when he turned enough to meet James’ gaze.

Bill drew them both back a step. “Nigel, this is Dr James Bond, our head engineer. James, Nigel Ronson, MI5 foreign language desk.”

James offered a smile of his own and clasped Nigel’s hand. No calluses, short nails, hint of a tan. Off-white shirt, dark blue patterned tie, tweed blazer. Broad shoulders, trim waist. Weightlifter, not a runner, but more concerned with muscle tone than strength.

Before James could say another word, Bill added, “James is newly returned to London. Doesn’t know anyone outside the office —”

“Was that Cathy calling you?” James interrupted, feeling bad for all three of them. Bill was politically brilliant and socially awful.

Nigel hid a laugh that lit up his eyes.

Bill huffed. “Thanks.” He gave them both a nod and left without another word.

James grinned and turned back to Nigel, who gestured to the bar and asked, “Something to drink?”

“Thanks, no. So, foreign language desk?”

“RAF family. I was in a dozen countries before I was ten. I’ve always been good with languages,” Nigel said with a charmingly modest shrug.

“Another expat. I spent most of my youth in Germany, Switzerland, and France.”

“So, what brought you back to dreary old England?”

“Back and away again. I was Royal Navy.”

“Royal Navy Engineers?”

James smiled. “Something like that,” he lied. “How about you? How did you end up at MI5? Seems very domestic.”

“Family tradition. RAF, Home Office, an uncle in our embassy in Mumbai. My brother and I split military intelligence — I took MI5, he took MI6.”

James’ smile didn’t falter, though something in Nigel’s tone gave him pause. He didn’t recognise the name Ronson, but he didn’t associate much with people outside his own department. No one else at the party shared Nigel’s good looks, so the brother wasn’t here. Field agent?

“MI5... One question,” James said, glancing around slyly.

Nigel’s brows went up. “As long as it’s not a breach of security.”

James hummed thoughtfully. “It might be.”

Nigel shifted his weight a bit closer. “Let’s hear it. Then you can convince me not to report you.”

James grinned. “How’s the canteen there? Because no one at MI6 can brew a decent cup of coffee worth a damn.”

 

~~~

 

Q would have expected more security for the residence of an MI6 executive. Yes, the CCTV on the street wasn’t standard, and the gate across the drive was reinforced, but still... It would be laughably easy for Q to sneak in, kill everyone in the house, steal all their computer data, and sneak out before anyone even noticed.

At least the door was electronically locked, with a keypad mounted unusually low on the wall. He nearly bent down to see which number keys had been worn down or smudged with finger oil, but the door clicked loudly and then began to swing slowly open. Q put on a friendly smile.

 _Aha_. The pretty, smiling woman in the wheelchair explained the low keypad.

For one instant, Q stalled, realising he had no idea what name to use. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d attended a party that wasn’t part of a mission, complete with an objective and cover identity.

He fell back on his most common cover identity and said, “Ray Sterling. You must be Mrs Tanner.”

“Yes. You work with Bill.” It sounded like a guess. She smiled more and held out her hand. “I’m Cathy.”

“A pleasure, Cathy.” Q shook her hand, noting the strength of her grip. The wheelchair had a motor, but her fingers were callused; she propelled herself manually much of the time. “You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you. I don’t recognise you from any of the company Christmas parties. Are you new?” she asked as a maid approached. Grey dress, black flats, no concealed weapons. Just a maid, rather than undercover security.

“I’m in the field division,” Q explained, taking off his leather jacket. His MI6-issued Walther was tucked away in a belly holster under his heavy charcoal jumper. The maid accepted the jacket and slipped silently away. “I spend most of my time away from London.”

“Well, I’m glad your schedule was open this weekend.” She gave him a genuine smile and turned towards the house, gesturing for him to follow.

She escorted him in with grace, clearing the furniture and walls by a hairsbreadth. The entrance hall had a twisting staircase with a black wrought iron railing; behind the staircase was a small lift. Burglar alarm, motion sensors, small motors to operate the windows. Interesting.

“Smarthome programming?” Q asked.

Cathy glanced up at him, surprised. “Yes. It’s a basic modular system, though I did a bit of upgrading.”

“Hardware or software?”

She grinned “Both. Well, software, mostly. The hardware is all aftermarket, ordered online, with only a couple of modifications. And the programming is simple ladder logic. I’m using some old PLCs.”

“Why not an Arduino?”

“You know, I thought about it, but it seemed overcomplicated. Ladder logic is simple — digital or analog, inputs and outputs.”

“It’s elegant,” Q admitted. “It’s been years since I did anything with ladder logic —”

“So you’re a programmer?” she interrupted enthusiastically.

“Occasionally. My brother —” He faltered, wondering what the _hell_ he was doing, bringing up Z. He _never_ mentioned Z to outsiders. _Cover, cover_ , he thought frantically. Cathy Tanner wasn’t a security risk.

But Cathy spoke up before Q could recover. “I’m sorry. Come in. Let’s get you a drink.”

Relieved, Q walked beside Cathy into the living room, where he faltered again, this time at the sight of Doctor Bond speaking to another man, one who was vaguely familiar to Q. They were standing intimately close to one another, eyes locked, both smiling. Bond was holding a tall glass, the contents clear and carbonated. Club soda? A mixed drink? The other man had a tumbler with a splash of amber liquid over two melting cubes of ice.

Cathy followed his gaze. “Oh, do you work with James? We’ve known him for years,” she said, wheeling herself right towards Bond and the other man. Raising her voice, she interrupted, “James, Nigel? Look who’s here.”

Before Bond could say anything, Q nodded to the stranger and said, “Ray Sterling.” To Bond, he added, “Nice to see you again, Doctor.”

Bond didn’t even blink at Q’s cover identity. He just smiled and turned back to his companion. “Ray, this is Nigel Ronson.”

 _Ronson_.

Q’s breath caught as he noted the family resemblance too late. The same smile, the same blue-grey eyes, an inch taller, not quite as solidly built as —

“Clive’s brother.” The words slipped out before Q could stop himself.

Nigel flinched. “You knew Clive?”

“Briefly,” Q lied, remembering the feel of blood on his hand — blood that he couldn’t stop in time. “I’m sorry.”

Pale and tense, Nigel nodded. “Thank you. Excuse me a moment.” He gave a false smile and looked to Cathy. “Where’s the...?”

Frowning worriedly, Cathy tipped her head. “This way,” she said, turning her chair around.

Bond frowned, looking after them. Then he looked at Q, sharp-eyed but without anger. Reading him. “Clive Ronson?”

“A field agent,” Q said very quietly. Brussels. Turkey. The theft of an encrypted hard drive, and the mad chase that had followed. “He died six months ago.”

“Was he one of the Alphas?”

Q shook his head. “No. But he was working with one.”

“You.”

Q turned and went for the bar. As soon as he caught the bartender’s eye, he ordered, “Whisky and soda, double, short.”

Bond moved close beside him. He leaned an elbow on the bar and quietly said, “My condolences.”

Startled, Q looked into Bond’s eyes. Saw sympathy there. Regret.

Q took a deep breath and looked down as the bartender slid a tumbler in front of him. “Thank you, James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is _not_ abandoned!
> 
> I have a deadline of the end of February for my next book, and that needs to be my priority. Once I'm finished, I'll be getting back to this and Exfiltration.
> 
> For updates, stop by my Tumblr: http://kryptaria.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks!


	9. Chapter 9

**Saturday, 9 February 2013**

Clive Ronson.

A name from another life. Another time. A time when the line between enemies and allies had been clear. Clive had been his to protect, and he’d failed. The mission had been his to run, and he’d... not failed. He hadn’t _succeeded_ , because he’d been betrayed.

He lifted his hand to sip his drink, and a gleam of light caught his eye. Water droplets spotted his thumb. His movement broke the surface tension, and the drops slid over his skin, falling, splashing down onto the wood railing.

He was outside. He couldn’t remember leaving the living room.

And he wasn’t alone.

His heart skipped, sending adrenaline surging through his body, even though there was no immediate threat. With a casual, natural movement, he glanced to the side. Doctor Bond was leaning against the railing, fifteen inches between his right elbow and Q’s left side. Far enough away to avoid being threatening, close enough to offer companionship. It was exactly where Q would have positioned himself to build trust with a skittish, nervous target.

Awareness prickled over Q’s skin. Any second now, James would say something comforting — something bland and neutral, meant to draw out Q’s thoughts and soothe his apprehension. He would present a calm, steady facade —

“Did you kill him?”

The question shattered Q’s analytical mindframe. “Yes,” slipped out before he could stop himself. He quickly amended it to, “No,” even though he knew there was no covering his lapse. Because of that, he added, “I left him to die.”

“Why?”

 _Why?_ Of all the potential responses to Q’s statement, James had asked _why?_

Feeling unusually wrong-footed, Q asked, “Did you know Clive?”

James shook his head and took off his glasses. He looked at the wet lenses and said, “Bill just introduced me to Nigel.”

The specific wording sparked connections in Q’s mind. Much like Q himself, Clive had been an opportunist when it came to choosing a lover; male or female mattered less than availability. Nigel, though, was strictly gay — and open about it. His body language, when talking to James, had been flirtatious. Full of interest. And James had been receptive and equally interested.

The silence stretched longer than Q realised, until James spoke up again: “Ready to go back inside?”

 _He knew,_ Q thought, ice lodging in his gut. He was a field agent. An operative. Weakness was to be hidden; vulnerability, armoured. Only his brother saw through his masks.

And now, James knew just how deeply Clive’s death had affected him.

 _Fuck_. Who else knew? Q tried to put together the moments between meeting Nigel and arriving on the back porch, but his perfect memory was flawed. He was missing ten seconds, maybe more.

He knew what he had to do. Cover. Explain it. Provide a reason that he’d so abruptly left and come outside. With James.

Doctor James Bond, who was apparently bisexual or at least open-minded enough that Bill Tanner, the MI6 Chief of Staff, had intentionally introduced him to a gay man. That made Q’s decision simple.

Only two, maybe three seconds had passed since James had asked his question. Smoothly, Q smiled and slid his hand over James’. His skin was cool and wet, his hand strong and solid in a way that would have been comforting, had Q been the sort to seek comfort.

James turned, meeting Q’s gaze. Again, Q was struck by the intensity of James’ blue eyes. It was rare that Q had the pleasure of seducing someone so enticing, at least on a mission.

“I don’t mind the rain,” Q said, pitching his voice intimately low, forcing James to focus on him.

James laughed softly. “Probably a good thing, considering how often it rains in London.” He didn’t move away from Q’s touch, but he also didn’t encourage further intimacy.

Should he push for more? He didn’t need to. An attempted seduction, even a failed one, was a good enough excuse to cover Q’s earlier slip. If anyone was watching them, they’d see the touch and read Q’s body language.

But as he stared into James’ sharp, intelligent eyes, he recalled how easily James had defended himself. How calm and composed he’d been every time Q had confronted him. How _unafraid_ he was, even though he knew what Q did for MI6.

Q’s fingers curled, tightening around James’ hand. “What about you? Do _you_ mind the rain?”

“If I minded, I’d be back in Devon. The weather’s beautiful there.” James’ gaze dipped to their joined hands; Q watched his pupils dilate. Interested, then.

“Then why leave?” Q asked, instinctively digging for information.

“The job seemed interesting.” James looked out towards the back garden. His right hand came up as if to put on his glasses. One corner of his mouth twitched, and he rested his hand on the railing, twisting the arm of the glasses between his fingers. “I was an engineer. Worked on my own projects. It was good work — important work — but MI6 was more...”

Q studied James’ profile, watching as his blue eyes shifted from spot to spot, scanning the backyard. Sharp. Alert. Looking for threats?

 _Exciting_ , Q thought, remembering his own decision to leave the SAS and join MI6. In the SAS, he’d worked with a team, with backup, as part of a chain of command. With MI6, though, he was on his own. And when he’d joined the Alpha Programme, he’d been cut loose from all but the lightest supervision. If he were caught or captured, he had no reason to think he’d be rescued or even acknowledged.

“Immediate,” he finally said.

James laughed softly. “Exciting.”

Startled, Q clenched James’ hand and nearly said, _“Yes.”_ He stopped himself and let go, thinking only of withdrawal. Escape. Of avoiding this too-sharp, too-perceptive man who seemed to have read his thoughts.

“I should go,” he said, even though he knew it was suspicious. Staying, though, would be dangerous.

“Wait —” James put his glasses on and took out his mobile. Q saw James open his contacts list before he tipped the phone, shielding it from the rain. A moment later, Q’s work mobile vibrated. James put his phone away and took off his glasses again. “I should be home by ten or eleven.”

_Did he..._

Instead of asking, Q seized the opportunity to escape. He stepped back from the railing, quietly saying, “Doctor.”

James’ lips curled up. “Q,” he answered, looking out at the garden once more.

Q let himself into the kitchen, where he allowed one of the maids to take his empty glass. He slipped through the crowd and found Cathy Tanner near the piano. He leaned down a bit so he could privately say, “I’m sorry, Cathy. Something’s come up. Would you —”

“Oh, dear,” she interrupted, glancing past him towards the windows overlooking the porch where James still stood. Then she gave him a sympathetic smile, saying, “Please don’t take it personally.”

“Sorry?”

“Whatever James said — or didn’t say.” She shook her head and turned her chair to better face Q. “He’s a wonderful man. It’s just hard to get through to him, since the divorce.”

Q wanted to ask for details, but now wasn’t the time. “I know,” he said gently, thinking about the phone in his pocket. “I think I’ll be seeing him again soon.”

Cathy smiled, relieved. “Good. Very good.”

“Thank you for the invitation.” Q took her hand, clasping it between both of his. “You have a lovely home.”

“You’ll have to come back, some time when it’s a bit quieter. I hadn’t expected such a crowd, but Bill so rarely sees his co-workers socially...”

Interesting. Tanner hadn’t warned his wife that he was inviting co-workers at the last minute. Q would have to puzzle that out, but later. For now, he said his goodbyes, retrieved his coat, and slipped out of the house. Outside, he took a deep breath and zipped his coat, though it was pointless; his shirt was almost soaked through.

Only when he was in the car, engine running, did he take out his mobile. He unlocked it and opened his messages.

And smiled.

  


~~~

  


“Well, that’s a new record for you,” Bill said, extending a steaming mug. The scent of strong black coffee tickled James’ nose. He took the mug gratefully, still feeling the chill of his rain-damp clothes.

“Thanks. Do I want to ask?”

“It took you — what, ten minutes to chase him off? And an Alpha, at that. How did you manage?”

James sighed and took a cautious sip. The coffee was delicious but too hot, testing his patience almost as badly as Q had earlier. James could still feel Q’s touch on his hand. “About them...” He switched the mug to his other hand so he could take Bill’s arm. “Got a minute?”

Bill nodded and gestured to the staircase beside the small lift. James led the way up, then followed Bill’s directions to a study at the front of the house. There were two desks but only one chair; Cathy’s desk was covered with bits of wire and electronic components.

“Why didn’t you offer Cathy my job?” James asked when Bill closed the door. “She’s qualified.”

“More than qualified. She turned it down,” Bill answered, grinning. “So, Q?”

James sat on the corner of Cathy’s desk. “Off the record, though. The Alphas are...”

“A necessary evil?” Bill’s chair creaked as he sat.

James nodded. “How does Gareth feel about them?”

Bill grimaced. “He understands —”

“Say no more,” James interrupted. “They’ve been running loose for months. Minimal guidance, no actual support in the field, nothing they can rely on at all. They’re soldiers, Bill. Even bloody civilian sales reps have to report in every quarter.”

With a quiet exhale, Bill leaned back, bracing one foot against a half-open drawer. “Things have changed. The last ten or so years, things have got rough, what with Iraq and Afghanistan and all. And then the attack last year...”

“I know.” James sipped the coffee and idly picked up one of the wires. He twisted it in his hand, feeling the bite of the sharp, exposed copper at the end. “I can manage them, Bill, but I need two things.”

“God, please tell me it’s not money.”

James shook his head. “Time and a blind eye.”

Bill gave an exaggerated sigh. “Done.”

“Thanks. Oh, and —”

“And?” Bill asked suspiciously.

“Full access to their files. _All_ their files.”

Bill sat up, feet thumping on the floor. “Do I have to mention the clearance required?”

“I think you’ll find I have higher clearance than you expect.” James smiled. “I was at Baskerville, after all.”

“You were an _engineer_.”

“We weren’t building better pens, Bill,” James scolded. “Just get me the Alphas’ files. Please.”

“All right.” Bill raked a hand through his thinning hair. “All right. We’re probably buggered if I don’t.”

“Thank you. And not a —”

“Not a word to Gareth. I know.” Bill sighed again and stood. “He’s a good man, James. A good man in a very, very bad position. His predecessor... She was a legend. Impossible to fill those shoes.”

“I heard.” James slipped down off the desk, taking the hint. He sipped his coffee. “Let’s get back downstairs —”

“Oh, no,” Bill cut in. “You’ve got plans for Q. I want to hear them.”

James smiled. “Sorry, Bill,” he said, heading for the door. “That’s classified.”

  


~~~

  


“Z?” Q shouted as he followed River downstairs to the secure basement. The rest of the house was empty, save for River’s muddy footprints.

Had Z gone out? Apparently so. Z’s room was empty, his computers locked.

“Well, shit,” Q muttered, catching River by her wet scruff at the last moment, before she could jump up onto Z’s bed. He got River pointed at the door and nudged her into the hallway. Once he had the door closed, he let go of her scruff. He took out his phone, and his breath caught when he saw he still had James’ contact info open.

He’d considered calling Z to find out where he’d gone. Losing himself for the night at a club or bar seemed like a good plan — or it had, until now.

“What do you think, River?” he asked, crouching down to let the saluki see the mobile. “What should I do tonight? James or a stranger?”

River bumped the mobile with her nose, gave it a test lick, and then warbled at him in disappointment that she couldn’t eat it. He laughed and hugged her close before remembering that she was all muddy. He groaned, reeking of wet dog, and shoved her away.

“Food, then a shower.”

River’s tail thumped against the wall at the mention of food, and she followed on his heels as he went back upstairs, to the kitchen. He distracted her with a dinner of frozen rabbit, mixed veg, and half an experimental loaf of bread that proved, in Q’s mind at least, that Z’s latest girlfriend couldn’t bake worth a damn. While River settled down to gnaw on the rabbit, Q went to the upstairs shower. It was closer to the water heater, which meant less time to warm up. That was the only flaw with their living quarters belowground, and one Q planned to fix, once he got around to installing point-of-use water heating systems.

There were so many things to do — everything from upgrades to automation and security to sorting the laundry. For one brief moment, he considered staying in, but the memory of James’ touch, of his brilliant blue eyes, of that smile...

James was _interested_ in him. He was certain of that, even if he didn’t know why. James was an MI6 executive — a _new_ executive, at that. So why show interest, however subtly, in an Alpha agent? It wasn’t just because James was gay; Nigel was far safer prey.

And that thought rankled. Q was no one’s prey.

He dried off and went back downstairs, not bothering to do his hair. He had no need to try to impress James. A T-shirt, jeans, and warm leather jacket would serve well enough tonight.

When he came back upstairs, River thumped her tail but didn’t otherwise turn away from the remains of the rabbit. The frozen meat would keep her occupied for some time — hopefully long enough for the rain to ease, even though the backyard would be muddy for two days. The wet, cold climate made Q long for the purity of snow.

But snow and ice made the roads too risky even for his comfort, and rain allowed him the luxury of taking out his Ducati. Z’s was still parked in the corner; he’d taken a cab, probably expecting to spend the night elsewhere.

Q’s only concession to the rainy night was to wear a helmet, mostly to protect the glasses he wore instead of contacts. His leather jacket was long enough to conceal the Walther worn at the back of his jeans. The bike roared to life and seemed to leap eagerly out of the garage. It had been far too long since he’d taken it for a ride outside of a mission.

He tore through the night, weaving in and out of traffic, grinning in exhilaration. Maybe tomorrow he’d suggest going for a ride with Z, somewhere out in the country.

Assuming that he didn’t end up dead or on the run for killing an MI6 executive by tomorrow. Hell, he might even end up staying the night at James’ place.

And _that_ thought was actually appealing.

The Bluetooth in the helmet whispered directions to him, and he pulled onto James’ street all too soon. He slowed and downshifted, blending in with the quiet residential neighbourhood. The street was well-lit, with enough security cameras to make Q’s skin crawl. Was MI6 monitoring James’ security?

He considered turning back, but only for a moment. Retreat was anathema. Besides, this had been James’ idea.

Instead, he stopped in front of James’ house, where the antique Aston Martin was parked on the street. It made an unlikely companion to the new Ducati, but Q felt safe enough leaving the bike by the kerb. He locked the helmet on its cable, ran a hand through his hair, and let himself into the gated front garden. Motion-sensitive lights came on. Q spotted two cameras — one regular, one infrared — trained on the walkway. There were probably more covering the side paths to the back garden.

James was apparently paying attention to the security cameras. Within seconds of Q’s knock, James opened the door. He was still in his dark blue shirt, without the jumper. The sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up, showing his defined forearms.

He smiled as if genuinely pleased. “Q. Come in,” he invited, stepping aside.

Q walked into the long, narrow foyer, taking note of the security keypad. There were no cameras inside. When James turned to shut the door, Q saw that he had a Walther holstered at the back of his jeans — the same style Walther as Q’s, though without the dermal sensor, in the same exact holster.

This was no tame executive.

Adrenaline hit Q’s system at the thought that James had invited him here — _lured_ him here — to kill him. Without thinking, Q stepped close, closing the distance between them. James locked the door and turned. Q watched him closely, trying to predict his movements. James’ eyes locked to Q’s, pupils dark and wide.

Another step brought their bodies flush. Q’s rain-soaked jeans were cold against his thighs. James lifted his hands, maybe to stop him, maybe to pull him closer. Q was faster, though. He caught James’ wrists and shoved them back against the door, and he silenced James’ sharp inhale with a kiss that caught them both by surprise.

James’ hands clenched into fists, twisting as if to test Q’s hold without actually trying to pull free. He parted his lips and touched his tongue to Q’s. Lightning shocks of pleasure went through Q. He gave James’ lower lip a sharp bite, and he thrilled at the sound of James’ quiet gasp.

“Q,” James whispered.

Q backed away, just an inch, still holding onto James’ wrists. A press of his fingertips let him feel James’ racing pulse. Q thought about the guns they were both carrying, and about the times he had attacked and James had defended. He considered disarming James — he mapped out every motion in his mind, just as he did before a kill.

“Upstairs?” James suggested.

Q released James’ wrists slowly, letting his fingers trail over the backs of James’ hands. James made no move to get away from the door or to go for his gun.

“Upstairs,” Q agreed, taking a step away as he gestured for James to lead.

James took a deep breath before he started for the stairs. Q hung back, and his eyes went naturally to the gun at James’ back. He carried it easily, without the subtle shifts that would betray any discomfort or lack of familiarity. Training urged Q to snatch the gun away, but he held back, wondering where tonight would go. To bed, yes, but afterwards?

When was the last time someone had turned their back on Q and walked away with such ease? James didn’t fear him. Even after all the times he had attacked James, even knowing what he did, James didn’t see him as a threat.

Q’s gaze dropped from the holstered Walther to James’ arse and thighs, barely hidden by tight denim. His movements were fluid and controlled, fascinating to watch. Q didn’t know what was more enticing: James’ body, his courage, or the subtle hints of surrender that coloured all of their interactions, from Q’s first attack to their first kiss.

After a moment, he followed James up the stairs. Hopefully, Q wouldn’t have to kill him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Human Recalibration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1340092) by [Skylocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylocked/pseuds/Skylocked)




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